Library  of 
The  University  of  North  Carolina 


COLLECTION  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINIANA 


ENDOWED  BY 

JOHN  SPRUNT  HILL 
of  the  Class  of  1889 

C8J5 


IJ^IIVERSITY  OF  N,C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00016896637 


This  book  may  be  kept  out  one  month  unless  a  recall 
notice  is  sent  to  you.  It  must  be  brought  to  the  North 
Carolina  Collection  (in  Wilson  Library)  for  renewal. 


fflO^Mi^^  ^^M  Mii-ixyy^sa 


Form  No.  A-369 


library 

OF 

The  University  of JiCj 


"Yaunocca!  Yaunocca! 

(See  page  297.) 


HE  CRIED. 


1 


WALLANNAH 


A  Colonial  Romance 


By  WILL  LOFTIN  HARGRAVE 


RICHMOND 
B.  F.  JOHNSON  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

1902 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I  Page 

The  Spinning  of  the  Web 9 

CHAPTER  II 

The  Theft  of  the  First-Born 23 

CHAPTER  III 

A  Meeting  and  a  Parting    . 33 

CHAPTER  IV 

Consuming  Flames 42 

CHAPTER  V 

Some  Further  Tricks  of  Fate 52 

CHAPTER  VI 

A  Good  Man  Meets  His  Wife 71 

CHAPTER  VII 

A  Bit  of  History         81 

CHAPTER  VIII 

"Call  That  Man  a  Frencher  !" 96 

CHAPTER  IX 

A  Knightly  Deed  and  a  Forewarning    .    .    .    .    iii 

CHAPTER  X 

The  Governor  Does  Some  Plotting 119 

CHAPTER  XI 

Conscience  and  a  Failure 132 

3   • 


Contents 

CHAPTER  XII  Page 

Beauty,  Love  and  Remorse 145 

CHAPTER  XIII 

A  Hunter  Hunted 156 

CHAPTER  XIV 

A  Cracked  Skull  and  a  Victory 165 

CHAPTER  XV 

Motier  Receives  Company 177 

CHAPTER  XVI 

The  Story  of  Jack  Ashburne 189 

CHAPTER  XVII 

The  Gift  of  the  White  Rose 200 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  Temptation  That  Went  Astray 211 

CHAPTER  XIX 

Men- AT- Arms  a-Marching 225 

CHAPTER  XX 

The  Battle  of  the  Alamance 234 

CHAPTER  XXI 

Several  Mysteries  Spring  Up 243 

CHAPTER  XXII 

An  Awkward  Surprise 255 

CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  Move  Forestalled ,    ,    26^ 

4 


ConrePts 

CHAPTER  XXIV  Page 

Some  Heathen  Justice 279 

CHAPTER  XXV 

Wallannah  Manita 293 

CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  Pair  of  Dead  Indians 307. 

CHAPTER  XXVII 

Caged  Birds — With  a  Little  Sword  Play    .    .    .    322 

CHAPTER  XXVIII 

Reckoning  an  Account 333 

CHAPTER  XXIX 

Cupid  Seems  in  Trouble 343 

CHAPTER  XXX 

The  Fortune-Teller  Plays  a  Hand    .    .    »    .    .    354 

CHAPTER  XXXI 

Unpleasant  Revelations     » 366 

CHAPTER  XXXII 

Murder     .    .    .    .    « 379 

CHAPTER  XXXIII 

627  Jeremiah  Lane 393 

CHAPTER  XXXIV 

"To  My  Mother— God  Bless  Her!" 407 

CHAPTER  XXXV 

In  Which  the  Expected  Happens 422 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Yaunocca  !  Yaunocca  !"  he  cried Frontispiece 

"Remember  all,  that  I  have  told  you" 13 

And  they  committed  Bowzer  to  his  grave 62 

"Speech  is  free!"   retorted  the  woodman,  his  voice  louder 

than  before       loi 

The  glass  fell  from  Simon's  hand  and  was  shattered  on 

the  hearth I34 

The  face  which  she  turned  toward  him  was  aglow  with 

pleasure 146 

"Oh !   Motier,"  she  cried,  standing  in  front  of  him  .     .     .  218 

He  raised  his  hat  and  smiled 412 


WALLANNAH 

CHAPTER  I 

The  Spinning  of  the  Web 

T  was  far  back  in  the  day  when,  save  for 
a  few  thousand  planted  acres,  the  forests 
covered  North  Carolina  from  Currituck  to 
Fear  and  from  the  peaks  of  the  Unakas 
eastward  to  the  slender  breakwater,  which,  bent  like  a 
giant's  knee,  lies  between  Pamlico  and  the  troubled 
seas. 

Over  all  the  land  lay  the  hush  of  an  autumn  noon, 
a  quiet  deeper  even  than  the  stillness  that  comes  before 
the  dawn.  In  the  part  of  that  country  where  the 
Neuse  creeps  down  to  the  great  sweep  that  turns  it 
eastward  to  the  sound,  the  pines  pointed  through  the 
breezeless  air  to  a  sky  that,  hard  and  hot,  blazed  like  a 
glowing  brazen  dome.  The  wood-fringed  river,  broad 
as  the  sea  of  Bahret  el  Hijaneh,  stood  still  at  the  poise 
of  the  tides,  lapping  its  shores  so  faintly  that  its 
rippling  could  be  heard  only  by  the  frog  that  blinked  its 
yellow  eyes  among  the  reeds,  or  by  the  deer  that  stood 
flank  deep  in  the  cooling -waters  on  the  shoal,  a  rod  off 
shore. 

It  seemed  as  though  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
wooded  land  had  never  felt  the  weight  of  the  foot  of 


Wallannah 

man.  Under  the  pines  a  bed  of  parching  needles 
covered  the  earth  and  the  creatures  that  crawled  upon 
it;  flowers,  bright  and  vari-colored,  and  grass,  knee 
high  and  fresh  with  moisture,  lay  in  unbroken  expanse 
over  the  sweep  of  the  level  land  beneath  the  elms ;  and 
the  lowlands  at  the  river's  brink  were  deep  in  ferns  and 
rushes.  But  nowhere  did  a  road  divide  the  glades  or  a 
pathway  wind  about  among  the  trees.  Pines  were 
there,  tall  and  straight  and  great  of  girth,  but  the 
blazoned  scar  of  the  woodman's  axe  had  never  drawn 
their  blood.  All  was  wild,  and  unprofaned  by  the 
settler's  ruthless  hand,  although  but  ten  leagues  further 
east  lay  New  Bern,  a  restless,  busy  town  girt  about  by 
the  tilled  and  fertile  lands  of  many  planters. 

But  the  forest,  void  though  it  seemed  of  human  life, 
harbored  in  its  sultry  depths  a  savage  world  of  its  own 
people.  Ever  and  anon  a  dusky  face  would  peer 
through  the  vine-laced  undergrowth,  a  bronzed  arm 
would  straighten  to  the  bending  of  a  bow,  and  a 
feathered  arrow,  gleaming  white  for  a  half-spent 
second,  would  flash  across  a  sunny  glade  and  sink  a 
third  of  its  length  in  the  side  of  a  fawn  that  thought 
itself  at  peace  with  the  whole  world. 

Back  a  little  way  from  the  river  and  deeply  bowered 
in  the  woodland,  a  tiny  spring,  bubbling  from  the 
ground,  twisted  down  a  grassy  hillock  toward  a  stream 
that  wound  its  way  into  the  Neuse.  And  there,  as 
still  as  the  trees  about  her,  with  head  uplifted  and  her 
hair  falling  back  from  her  face,  stood  an  Indian  girl. 
She  leaned  a  little  forward,  as  one  who  listens  for  a 
far-off  sound.  After  a  moment  her  lips,  slightly 
parted,  bent  in  a  half-formed  smile,  as  from  the  depths 

10 


The  Spinning  of  the  Web 

of  the  wood  came  the  mewing  cry  of  a  cat-bird.  The 
muscles  of  her  bare,  rounded  throat  quivered  the 
veriest  trifle,  and  back  went  the  answering  call,  clear 
and  strong.  Then,  stepping  quickly  to  the  edge  of  the 
glade,  she  parted  the  bushes  and  looked  down  the  slope 
toward  the  rivulet  below.  A  long  time  she  stood  there, 
her  graceful  figure  strongly  marked  against  the  green 
about  her.  Thrice  did  the  wild-bird  call  awaken  the 
forest  echoes,  and  thrice  went  back  the  answer,  sweet 
as  the  nightingale's  song. 

A  fair  picture  she  made,  standing  proudly  in  the 
glory  of  her  youth.  Her  arms  were  bare  to  the 
bracelets  that  girt  them  above  the  elbows.  Below  her 
fringed  skirt  glistened  the  fantastic  beadwork  of  her 
buckskin  leggings;  and  her  feet,  small  and  shapely, 
were  clothed  in  moccasins  bearing  on  the  instep  the 
sign  of  a  red-rayed  sun.  The  lines  of  her  figure  were 
full  and  round,  and  her  face,  framed  with  a  flowing 
wealth  of  coal-black  hair,  and  lighted  with  great  eyes 
of  liquid  brown,  was  as  lovely  a  face  as  God  had  ever 
given  to  woman. 

A  pity  it  was  that  Sequa  was  a  savage.  True,  her 
grandfather  had  been  a  king,  but  the  blood  of  pagan 
kings  carries  no  heritage  of  godliness.  Her  notions 
of  lying  and  of  theft,  and  of  many  things  other  than 
these,  were  far  removed  from  the  civilized  standard. 
If  Sequa  made  mistakes  it  was  largely  because  she 
knew  no  better.  At  the  same  time,  had  her  wishes 
led  that  way,  she  might  have  learned  to  know  the  good 
from  the  evil.  So  the  facts  can  hardly  excuse  the  girl 
from  the  several  misdeeds  which  must  be  set  against 
her  account. 

ir 


Wallannah 

The  heathen  simplicity  of  Sequa's  nature  came 
plainly  into  view  when  she  smiled  with  great,  uplifted 
eyes  into  the  face  of  the  tall  young  man,  who,  threading 
his  way  among  the  trees,  bounded  across  the  rivulet 
and  climbed  to  the  mound  beside  her.  And  something 
of  the  same  freedom  came  into  play  when  he  dropped 
his  hand  to  her  rounded  waist,  and  she  raised  her 
arms,  and  drawing  down  his  head,  kissed  him  until  he 
turned  his  face  aside  and  cried  for  a  chance  to  breathe. 
Then,  each  holding  the  other's  hand,  they  walked 
across  the  glade  to  a  spot  which  the  sun's  heat  had  not 
yet  touched.  There  she  sat,  leaning  her  shoulders 
against  the  trunk  of  a  towering  elm ;  while  he,  resting 
lazily  beside  her,  played  with  the  rings  on  her  fingers 
and  talked  to  her  in  English  and  in  Cherokee. 

Had  Sequa's  eyes  been  trained  to  read  in  the  face 
of  man  the  lines  of  good  and  evil  which  were  there,  she 
might  have  looked  with  less  favor  upon  the  features  of 
John  Cantwell.  True,  his  face  was  comely  in  a  way. 
His  forehead  was  broad  and  high,  his  eyes  large  and 
dark,  and  his  skin  so  clear  that  the  blue  of  his  veins 
showed  strongly  on  his  brow  and  his  temples.  And, 
too,  his  mouth  was  of  goodly  shape,  and  his  chin  was 
firm  and  squarely  moulded.  All  these  things  could 
Sequa  see ;  and  she  found  them  pleasing.  But  the  deep 
eyes  had  something  in  them  which  told  the  great,  black 
lie  of  his  life ;  and  at  times  a  look  bespeaking  a  serpent's 
guile  crossed  his  face  and  left  a  shadow  not  good  for 
a  knowing  eye  to  look  upon.  But  these  were  the  things 
that  Sequa  could  not  see;  so  all  that  he  seemed — to 
her — ^was  pleasing. 

They  stayed  in  their  forest  bower  a  long  time,  until 

12 


■ReIIEJIBER  all  that  I   HAVE  TOLD  YOU. 


The  Spinning  of  the  Web 

the  sun  had  gone  far  down  to  the  wefst,  and  the  woods 
had  cooled  and  were  musical  with  the  songs  of  birds 
and  the  chatter  of  the  squirrels  in  the  tree-tops.  And 
through  all  that  time  they  plotted  and  planned,  Sequa 
and  her  pale-faced  lover;  she  laughing  and  making 
a  huge  jest  of  the  matter  in  hand,  he  half  serious 
and  half  mocking,  but,  through  it  all,  masterful  and 
unrelenting. 

He  had  told  her  of  a  house  that  stood  in  the  forest 
beyond  the  hamlet  of  Neusioc,  a  day's  journey  toward 
the  river's  head,  and  of  a  child  within  that  house  which 
must  be  stolen  and  brought  to  him  by  noon  of  the  third 
day  after.  And  Sequa,  not  knowing  that  Mary  Ross, 
the  mother,  was  Cantwell's  truly  wedded  wife,  laughed 
scornfully  at  the  folly  of  the  woman  who  had  borne 
the  child,  and  entered  into  the  project  with  all  the  zest 
of  her  heathen  spirit. 

"And  now,"  said  Cantwell,  when  the  plot  was 
laid,  "remember  all  that  I  have  told  you;  and  be 
careful  with  the  child,  and  bring  him  to  me  alive  and 
well." 

"But  if  she — the  foolish  woman" — said  Sequa,  in 
her  native  tongue;  "if  she  sees  me,  what  shall  I  do 
then?" 

"She  cannot  see  you.  Wait  until  she  leaves  the 
child  alone  in  the  room ;  then  creep  in  and  take  him 
from  his  bed  and  run  down  the  path  by  the  river. 
When  she  comes  back — " 

With  a  low  laugh,  she  interrupted  him. 

"If  I  could  only  see  her  then,"  she  cried,  exultantly. 
"She  will  laugh  and  cry,  and  make  queer  sounds,  like 
the  Sinnegar  squaw  with  Tetah's  arrow  in  her  throat. 

13 


Wallannah 

All  this  will  she  do  because  her  skin  is  white  and  her 
heart  is  faint,  and  because  she  knows  as  little  as  her 
child  of  the  wisdom  that  is  Sequa's." 

They  looked  at  one  another  and  laughed,  the  one 
merrily  as  from  a  light  heart,  the  other  with  the  ring 
that  tells  of  venom  in  the  soul.  Then,  rising  to  her 
feet  she  stretched  out  her  bronzed  arms  with  an 
indolent  gesture  of  command.  ''Come,  Great  Heart," 
she  said,  with  the  deep  love-light  in  her  eyes,  "soon  the 
sun  will  leave  us  in  the  wood,  and  Sequa  has  yet  a 
long  journey  to  make.  Ah !"  she  laughed,  as  breaking 
from  his  embrace  she  darted  through  the  bushes  and 
led  the  way  down  to  the  creek;  'T  feared  you  had 
forgotten!  But  you  are  so  strong — you  would  crush 
me  like  a  bear.  Did  she — the  foolish  one — love  you 
as  I  do?  No;  she  could  not,  for  her  face  and  her 
heart  are  white,  and  her  blood  runs  slow  like  the  water 
in  yonder  river.  She  loved  you  so  little  that  she  must 
bear  the  child  and  love  him  more  than  you.  But  Sequa 
is  wise,  and  gives  all  her  love  to  you.  And  who  is 
happier,  the  foolish  one,  or  Sequa?" 

They  went  down  the  hill,  he  with  an  arm  about  her 
waist — a  lithe,  firm  waist,  muscled  with  steel,  yet  soft 
and  yielding  as  a  child's — and  she  brushing  aside  the 
branches  and  vines  that  bent  across  their  way.  Lifting 
her  high  above  the  water,  he  carried  her  across  the 
stream;  then  dropping  her,  amid  a  shower  of  kisses, 
into  the  field  of  waist-high  ferns,  he  led  the  way  up 
the  further  bank,  and  together  they  went  through  the 
wood. 

And  the  brook  sang  and  danced  foam-flecked  over 
its  pebbles;  the  cardinal-bird  flamed  gaily  across  the 

14 


The  Spinning  of  the  Web 

sunlit  open ;  and  here  and  there  the  river,  resplendent 
as  a  stream  of  gold,  gleamed  through  the  green  of  its 
banks  of  willow.  Sequa,  radiant  in  her  pagan  beauty, 
laughed  and  sang  as  she  leaped  from  mound  to  fallen 
log,  and  from  log  to  beds  of  fragrant  flowers.  And  in 
that  shining,  favored  land,  all  was  fair  and  bright  save 
only  the  eyes  of  John  Cantwell,  gleaming  ominously 
with  sinister  craft — the  one  discordant  note  in  the 
symphony  of  beauty. 

It  was  twihght  when  Cantwell,  returning-  to  the 
village  of  New  Bern,  walked  :,lowly  down  the  street, 
greeting  with  kindly  smile  and  cheering  word  the 
scores  of  friends  whom  he  passed  on  the  way.  Pausing 
a  moment  at  the  great  carriage-block  before  his  house, 
he  looked  long  and  earnestly  down  the  broad  expanse 
of  the  Neuse  as  it  stretched  toward  the  sound;  then, 
with  more  serious  mien,  he  opened  the  gate,  and  walked 
up  the  graveled  walkway  to  the  white-pillared  house 
that  reared  its  noble  front  from  a  terrace  of  green  and 
a  maze  of  tulip-beds  and  blooming  rosebushes.  Before 
the  oaken  door  he  paused  again;  and  once  more  his 
eyes  sought  the  deepening  haze  of  the  seaward  sweep 
of  the  river.  But  the  Leopard,  freighted  with  the 
wealth  of  the  West  Indies,  and  flying  Cantwell's  yellow 
pennant,  was  still  beyond  his  sight — and  twelve  days 
overdue. 

Opening  the  door,  Cantwell  mounted  the  stairway 
and  entered  his  room — a  luxurious  apartment.  The 
windows  were  richly  curtained,  and  a  canopy  of  soft 
brocaded  silk  hung  over  the  great  bedstead.  Upon  the 
walls  were  rare  pictures,  and  on  a  pedestal  in  a 
windowed  alcove  stood  a  bronze  statue  of  Hermes. 

15 


Wallannah 

The  classic  mantel  was  set  with  carved  vases  of  marble, 
and  back  of  these  was  a  silver-framed  mirror,  reputed 
to  have  come  from  a  pirate  brig  captured  of¥  Cayo 
Verde  and  the  Ragged  Islands.  The  floor  was  bare, 
and  shone  with  purest  wax,  and  on  its  glistening 
expanse  lay  rugs  of  fur,  and  of  silk  from  the  looms 
of  Azerbijan,  each  worth  the  ransom  of  a  Bolobo 
slave.  The  massive  mahogany  furniture,  with  its  rich 
upholstering,  was  the  envy  of  the  townspeople — and 
this,  be  it  remembered,  was  but  one  room  of  all  the 
great  house. 

Surrounded  by  these  marks  of  wealth  and  of  power, 
Cantwell  dropped  into  his  great  rocking-chair,  while 
his  negro  valet,  having  lighted  the  candles  in  the 
sconces,  brought  out  a  velvet  suit  of  garnet,  lined  with 
pea-green  satin  and  touched  here  and  there  with  silver 
embroidery.  After  this,  Cantwell,.  whose  dark  eyes 
had  followed  his  servant  hither  and  thither  about  the 
room,  called  for  wine  and  asked  that  he  be  left  alone. 
Then,  although  it  was  close  to  the  hour  of  supper,  he 
lay  back  in  his  chair  and  gave  himself  over  to  deep 
thought. 

Scarce  thirty  years  had  passed  since  John  Cant  well's 
eyes  had  first  opened  at  Lancaster,  in  England,  and  of 
those  thirty  years  fourteen  had  been  spent  in  North 
Carolina.  Landing  at  New  Bern  in  the  spring  of 
1740,  a  long-limbed,  keen-eyed  boy  of  sixteen,  he  had 
made  friends  from  his  first  day  ashore ;  and  as  he  made 
friends  he  made  also  money.  At  the  end  of  his  second 
year  in  America  he  had  built  up  a  considerable  traffic 
with  the  Indians.  Exchanging  clothing  and  tawdry 
ornaments  for  rich  furs  and  crude  native  implements 

16 


The  Spinning  of  the  Web 

of  war  and  of  peace,  he  marketed  his  curious  wares 
among  the  British  mariners  who  came  to  port,  deriving 
therefrom  the  just  and  equitable  profit  of  eight  hundred 
per  cent.  Then,  by  an  astuteness  that  set  agape  the 
mouths  of  the  good  people  of  New  Bern,  Cantwell 
made  thousands  of  guineas  by  his  sales  of  stores  and 
munitions  of  war,  first  to  Oglethorpe,  who  fought  the 
Spanish  invasion,  and  later  to  the  Canadians  and  their 
allies,  at  the  siege  of  Lewisburg,  in  1745. 

It  mattered  Httle  that  some  envious  ones  whispered 
that  Cantwell's  powder  sold  for  louis  d'  or  and 
doubloons  as  well  as  for  honest  British  sovereigns. 
The  only  thing  of  consequence  was  that  Cantwell 
made  the  money;  and  by  long  strides  he  mounted  to 
prosperity  and  ease.  In  his  twenty-fifth  year  he  bought 
the  captured  buccaneer  El  Escoria,  changed  her  name 
to  the  Leopard,  and  placed  her  in  the  West  Indian 
service,  trading  triangularly  between  New  Bern, 
Havana  and  Liverpool. 

It  was  after  this  that  Cantwell,  blessed  with  easy 
circumstances,  abandoned  his  adventurous  trading  with 
the  Indians  and  his  long  journeys  with  powder-trains 
and  store-wagons,  and  settled  down  to  an  ever-widening 
sphere  of  influence  in  the  home  of  his  adoption.  His 
friendships  extended  to  the  statesmen  of  the  province 
and  the  favorites  of  the  king.  But  this  was  done 
modestly,  and  with  no  show  of  undue  exultation. 
Then,  to  keep  his  blood  in  tone  and  his  muscles  iirm,  he 
put  to  practical  use  the  knowledge  of  surveying,  which, 
through  long  study  by  lamplight  and  by  firelight,  he 
had  gained  in  the  years  past.  And  throughout  the 
province  many  disputed  boundaries  were  set  aright  by 

17 


Wallannah 

his  skill.  He  was  made  justice  of  the  peace  in  the 
town  of  New  Bern,  and  still  retained  the  office,  although 
beyond  real  need  of  its  fees :  for  John  Cantwell,  with 
some  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  pounds  to  the  good, 
would  still  let  nothing  pass  which  would  add  a  shilling 
to  his  store. 

During  the  governorship  of  Gabriel  Johnston,  the 
influence  of  Cantwell  became  more  marked  than  ever. 
He  might  at  any  time  have  held  a  seat  in  the  council, 
yet  firmly  set  aside  the  pleading  of  his  friends,  and 
kept  aloof  from  the  halls  of  legislation. 

It  w^as  at  this  time  that  Cantwell  accepted  a  limited 
commission  from  Governor  Johnston.  Acting  under 
this,  he  began  a  journey  along  the  shores  of  the  Neuse, 
seeking  a  spot  where  a  great  English  mill  might  locate 
and  find  Avater  wherewith  to  turn  its  wheels.  Out  of 
all  the  province  Cantwell  was  chosen  for  this  mission, 
because  he  knew  the  river  from  Pamlico  to  the 
headwaters,  and  from  shore  to  shore,  and  from  its 
high-tide  mark  to  the  silt  that  drifted  along  its  bottom. 
Then,  too,  all  the  tongues  of  the  Indian  tribes  were  to 
Cantwell  as  the  king's  own  speech ;  and  the  governor 
wished  to  learn  some  other  things  that  none  but  the 
Cherokees  knew.  Thus,  Cantwell's  quest  was  of 
importance;  and  when  it  degenerated  into  something 
not  foreseen  in  the  plan,  the  governor  was  not  the  one 
to  blame. 

All  might  have  gone  well,  and  Cantwell,  possibly, 
would  have  lived  a  life  of  unbroken  prosperity  and 
ease,  had  it  not  been  that  the  pestilence  that  walketh 
in  darkness  went  far  from  its  course  and  seized  upon 
Cantwell  in  the  noonday.     Stricken  with  the  marsh 

i8 


The  Spinning  of  the  Web 

fever  that  spread  through  tidewater  Carolina  in  that 
year,  he  rode,  ill  and  half  crazed,  through  a  rain-storm 
of  many  hours'  duration.  At  last,  when  the  dusk  had 
shut  down  over  all  the  land,  Cantwell  halted  at  the 
lonely  cabin  of  the  Widow  Ross,  which  stood  then,  and 
for  twenty  years  thereafter,  at  the  end  of  the  mile-long 
path  that  ran  crookedly  westward  from  Neusioc. 

She  who  opened  the  door  to  Cantwell's  knock  was 
Mary,  the  widow's  daughter,  a  fair-haired  girl  of  his 
own  age,  with  eyes  of  violet  and  with  red  Hps  and 
peach-blow  cheeks.  Ill  though  the  man  was,  a  flash  of 
eager  interest  crossed  his  face,  and  he  addressed  the 
girl  in  such  soft-spoken  phrases  that  the  blood  surged 
beneath  the  fair  skin  of  her  cheek  and  she  lowered  her 
gaze  to  the  floor.  A  quick  gleam  came  to  his  eyes. 
Then,  looking  across  the  room,  with  unhesitating 
frankness  he  met  the  widow's  kind  regard  and  named 
himself  John  Matthev^^s,  a  traveler  lost  in  the  forest 
and  ill  unto  desperation.  Why  he  did  it,  whether  the 
river-fever  had  mounted  to  his  brain  and  had  left  him 
unreasoning,  or  whether  something  came  to  him  of  the 
things  that  might  lie  in  the  future,  none  but  Cantwell 
could  tell.  At  any  rate,  Matthews  had  he  called 
himself,  and  as  Matthews  they  took  him  into  their 
home,  giving  him  such  welcome  as  their  humble  means 
afforded. 

Seeing  how  ill  the  man  was,  they  placed  him  in  the 
best  room  in  the  cabin,  which  room  happened  to  be 
Mary's,  spotlessly  swept  and  garnished.  Then  the 
girl,  with  tumult  in  her  heart,  sat  half  the  night  by  the 
kitchen  fire  and  wove  romances,  rose-hued  and 
fantastic,  with  the  dark-eyed  youth  as  their  hero. 

19 


Wallannah 

They  nursed  Cantwell  for  nine  long  weeks.  Before 
he  left  them  he  had  learned  all  of  their  pitiful  story 
of  hardship  and  disappointment.  He  knew  how  Henry 
Ross,  who  for  ten  long  years  had  fought  the  Indian 
and  the  wolf  in  that  wilderness,  met  his  death  one  day 
at  even  by  the  falhng  of  a  rotted  pine  beside  his  very 
cabin  door;  how  the  widow  and  the  daughter  and  the 
twelve-year-old  boy  had  struggled  against  the  enemies 
that  lurked  in  the  forest  and  the  destruction  that  came 
hand  in  hand  with  the  wars  of  the  elements. 

Then,  over  and  above  all,  was  the  pitiful  hope 
against  hope  for  the  day  when  all  these  things  would 
pass  from  them,  and  they  might  come  back  again  to  the 
settlements  of  peace  and  plenty.  So  he  learned  much 
of  them;  but  they  knew  Uttle  of  him,  save  that  he 
found  favor  in  their  eyes;  that  he  spoke  with  more 
than  passing  kindness  to  the  girl ;  and  that  he  had 
wealth  and  power  beyond  that  of  any  man  they  had 
ever  known. 

Then  came  the  workings  of  that  inscrutable  power 
which  the  brothers  of  Islam  call  kismet — that  which  to 
some  is  "fate,"  and  to  others  "Providence." 

Cantwell's  visits  to  the  cabin  became  frequent ;  and, 
as  seemed  befitting,  he  paid  court  to  the  widow's 
daughter;  and  through  it  all,  there  being  none  to 
gainsay  him,  he  remained  John  Matthews. 

At  last,  when  springtime  was  close  at  hand,  when 
the  wood  was  fair  with  the  sweet  bay  and  the  magnolia, 
and  the  yellow  jessamine  and  the  wild  tulip  bloomed 
in  the  forest  groves  —  on  one  of  these  days,  in  the 
grass-girt  path  that  wound  along  the  river  shore, 
Cantwell  asked  Mary  to  be  his  wife.    And  she,  looking 

20 


The  Spinning  of  the  Web 

into  his  face  with  awe,  and  trembling,  said,  "If  mother 
place  no  bar  in  my  way,  I  will  wed  you  when  you 
will." 

And  that  had  been  four  years  ago !  The  smile  that 
came  with  the  thought  died  on  Cantwell's  lips  in  a 
sneer.    As  Sequa  had  said,  the  woman  was  a  fool ! 

Rising  to  his  feet,  with  something  very  like  an 
oath  he  consigned  his  memories  to  perdition  and 
began  dressing  for  the  evening  meal:  for  Mistress 
Cantwell,  high-bred  and  high-strung,  awaited  him  in 
the  dining-room,  and  her  temper  when  awry  was  not 
pleasant  for  a  man  to  face.  But  Mistress  Cantwell  was 
not  she  who  had  once  been  Mary  Ross. 

Now,  it  goes  without  saying  that  the  story  of  a 
man's  life,  as  that  life  is  known  to  the  man  himself,  can 
be  told  by  no  one  else.  And,  equally,  it  goes  without 
saying  that  the  man  never  tells  it.  From  the  first  of 
men  (and  thousands  of  millions  have  since  lived  and 
died)  down  to  the  youngest  among  us  now,  certain 
things  in  every  life  have  gone  and  will  go  as  secrets  to 
the  tomb.  Perhaps  it  is.best  that  this  is  so ;  for,  were 
all  things  known,  some  several  thousand  saints  would 
have  failed  to  rise  above  the  ranks  of  men. 

As  for  John  Cantwell,  the  world  for  many  years 
thought  him  one  man  when  in  his  life  he  was  another. 
In  the  later  days,  when  the  rest  of  mankind  began  to 
know  him  as  he  was,  some  of  the  wise  men  of  that  time 
said  that  Cantwell  had  two  souls,  one  of  good,  the 
other  of  evil.  Certainly  he  lived  two  lives;  but  if  one 
were  bad,  and  that  were  the  true  one,  then  was  the 
other  bad,  or  worse :  for  it  was  a  lie.  The  hypocrite 
who  bows  his  head  in  holy  places  has  less  grace  than 

21 


Wallannah 

the  other  sinner  who  flaunts  his  wickedness  from  the 
house-tops. 

Yet,  with  Cantwell  there  were  times  —  as  one 
among  his  friends  could  say  —  when  the  man  rose  for 
a  brief  spell  above  the  charnel-house  of  his  dual  self, 
and  suffered  in  that  moment  such  tortures  as  are 
measured  to  the  unredeemed.  Be  that  as  it  may,  few 
knew  until  his  last  day  that  John  Cantwell  was  other 
than  the  upright  man  of  trade,  the  just  magistrate,  and 
the  friend  of  the  humble  people.  None  was  more 
eloquent  in  prayer,  none  more  brotherly  in  sickness  or 
in  death,  and  none  more  willing  to  help  whomsoever 
needed  a  friend.  He  who  stopped  a  man  in  the  streets 
of  New  Bern,  and  asked,  "What  know  you  of  John 
Cantwell?"  would  straightway  have  his  answer: 
"  'Squire  Cantwell  is  a  good  man — yea,  and  a  true 
one."  Such  was  he  in  the  eyes  of  the  people.  In  the 
eyes  of  God  —  but  that  is  not  for  man  to  say. 

Well  might  these  things  have  come  to  Cantwell's 
mind  that  night  as  he  sat  at  his  table.  Facing  him 
was  Mistress  Cantwell,  stately  and  proud  of  soul ;  and 
at  his  left  and  at  his  right  were  the  little  son  and 
daughter  who  had  come  of  their  union.  Yet,  in  the 
forest,  ten  leagues  to  the  west,  was  Mary  Ross,  wedded 
to  him  by  the  lawful  ritual;  and  somewhere  between 
the  one  wife  and  the  other  was  Sequa,  who  looked 
upon  him  even  as  did  the  two  others.  But,  with  it  all, 
Cantwell's  face  betrayed  no  sign  save  of  peace  and 
satisfaction  of  soul.    That  was  the  way  of  the  man. 


22 


The  Theft  of  the  Firstborn 


CHAPTER  II 

The  Theft  of  the  First-Born' 

FTER  her  talk  with  Cantwell,  two  nights 
and  a  day  and  a  fourth  part  of  the  second 
day  passed  before  Sequa,  emerging  from  the 
forest,  entered  the  village  of  Neusioc.  A 
full  thirty  miles  had  she  come;  and  the  journey  had 
been  a  rough  one.  The  road  that  joined  Neusioc  and 
New  Bern  could  scarce  be  called  a  road.  Cypress  and 
scrub  oak  lined  the  way;  and  marshes  and  bayous  so 
crossed  the  course  that  much  of  the  highway  lay  a 
sodden  mire  for  half  the  day  and  a  flooded  swamp  in 
the  hours  when  the  tide  was  in.  Through  this  country, 
with  the  wolf  and  the  bear  in  wood  and  in  canebrake, 
Sequa  had  made  her  solitary  way.  What  wonder  that 
at  Neusioc  she  sought  her  father's  hut  and  slept  there 
until  the  close  of  the  afternoon. 

Neusioc,  as  has  been  said,  stood  at  the  eastern  end 
of  the  path  which  led  to  the  home  of  Mary  Ross.  How 
old  the  place  was  no  one  knew.  V/hen  the  first 
pale-face  came  up  the  Neuse,  he  found  it  an  ancient 
Indian  town — so  ancient  that  its  chief,  himself  blind 
and  feeble  with  age,  could  but  say  that  Neusioc  was 
old  and  decaying  when  his  father's  grandfather  led  the 
war  dance  of  the  tribe  that  gave  the  town  its  name. 
But  Neusioc,  in  this  twenty-seventh  year  of  the 

23 


Wallannah 

reign  of  the  second  George,  was  not  as  it  had  been  in 
the  days  of  its  heathen  king.  Of  the  mouldering 
wigwam  walls  not  one  stick  nor  stone  stood  beside  or 
upon  another.  Huts  of  log  and  sapling  lined  the  town's 
single,  crooked  avenue ;  and  here  .and  there  a  gleam  of 
red  marked  the  rise  of  a  white  man's  chimney.  Fences, 
heavy  with  gourd  vines,  kept  the  cattle  from  the 
gardened  yards ;  and  from  every  homestead  came  the 
medley  of  the  poultry  and  the  swine.  Indians  were 
there,  some  clear-eyed  and  proud  with  the  pride  of 
race,  but  others,  and  the  greater  part,  dull-faced  and 
drink-besotted — broken  reeds  at  the  end  of  a  line  of 
kings. 

Within  the  little  settlement  peace  and  harmony 
prevailed,  white  men  and  red  working  together  as  of 
one  kind,  each  helping  to  ease  the  other's  burden. 
And  of  the  men  who  peopled  the  town,  two  stood  head 
and  shoulders  above  their  fellows.  They  were  James 
Noel,  the  village  minister,  and  Tetah,  the  father  of 
Sequa.  Mr.  Noel  had  a  wife,  frail  and  fair  as  a 
drooping  flower,  and  a  laughing,  blue-eyed  child ;  while 
Tetah,  whose  squaw  slept  beneath  the  sod  of  the 
Piedmont  forests,  had  but  the  girl;  yet  she  was  one 
whose  beauty  made  her  greater  in  the  province  even 
than  was  he  himself. 

The  Reverend  James  Noel  had  come  from  England 
to  the  Carolinas  nearly  a  year  before,  and  from  his  own 
purse  had  built  the  rude  log  cTiurch  that  stood  on  the 
little  village  green.  Tetah  had  trodden  the  forests 
before  Christopher  Baron  de  Graafenreidt  brought  his 
Swiss  and  his  Germans  from  the  Alps  and  from  the 
Rhine,  when  the  century  was  but  nine  years  old ;   and 

24 


The  Theft  of  the  Firstborn 

Tetah  had  no  church,  for  his  god  was  the  great 
Manitou,  whose  temple  was  the  earth  beneath  and  the 
sky  above  and  all  that  lay  between  the  two.  The 
minister  was  the  second  son  of  a  great  peer,  and  his 
brother,  ill  in  health  and  broken  in  spirit,  was  Henry, 
Lord  Durham.  V/ith  any  day  might  come  the  death 
of  Durham,  and  the  stately  mansion  would  open  its 
doors  to  receive  as  its  master  the  Carolina  missionary. 
Tetah  was  the  only  son  of  a  chief  whose  feathered 
crown  had  nodded  at  the  downfall  of  legioned  enemies. 
Back  among  the  mountains  lived  a  warrior  tribe,  whose 
squaws  kept  ever  ready  the  lodge  of  him  whose  fathers 
were  kings  among  their  people  back  unto  the  days 
when  the  great  sea  lapped  against  the  peak  of 
Yuannocca;  and  that  was  very  long  ago,  for  now  the 
mountain  of  the  Manitou  stands  sheer  three  thousand 
feet  above  the  plains  that  lie  below. 

Such  were  the  two  men,  and,  although  God  had 
made  them  of  different  races  they  were  alike  in  so 
far  as  each  of  them  was  fearless,  steadfast,  and  of 
unswerving  truth. 

From  the  time  that  Mr.  Noel  had  come  to  Neusioc, 
Sequa  had  made  it  her  v/ay  to  stop  at  his  house  and 
ask  his  blessing  whenever  she  passed  through  the 
village.  Her  father,  who  thought  the  white  man's 
religion  a  good  thing  for  some  men  and  all  women,  had 
taught  her  this ;  and  for  a  twelvemonth  she  had  been 
unfailing  in  her  duty.  So  it  was  with  some  wonder 
that  the  minister  learned  at  evening  that  Sequa,  after 
sleeping  all  day  at  her  father's  house,  without  further 
ado  had  gone  back  to  the  forest,  passins^  the  parsonage 
without  a  look  to  the  right  or  to  the  left.    The  worthy 

25 


Wallannah 

man  thought  a  long  while  over  the  strangeness  of 
Sequa's  behavior,  and  at  last  came  to  think  that 
something  outside  of  love  and  lovers  troubled  the 
girl's  mind. 

Mr.  Noel  and  his  wife  were  at  supper,  and  their 
little  daughter,  Alice,  was  sleeping  in  her  crib,  when 
the  news  came  to  them  of  the  things  which  concerned 
Sequa.  While  they  sat  there,  the  knocker  made  a  loud 
clangor  on  the  front  door.  They  heard  the  servant's 
step,  the  opening  of  the  door,  a  rush  of  skirts,  and  a 
woman's  quick  sobbing  in  the  hallway.  A  moment 
later,  and  Mary  Ross,  white-cheeked  and  wild-eyed, 
entered  the  dining-room.  She  gave  them  no  time  for 
greeting,  but  burst  into  a  storm  of  grief. 

"My  child !  my  child !"  she  cried,  as  she  staggered 
forward  to  the  light.  "I^Ir.  Noel,  where  can  he —  Oh ! 
help  me." 

She  stood  for  a  moment,  her  hands  pressed  tightly 
on  her  breast  and  her  eyes  fixed  with  pitiful  appeal 
upon  the  minister's  face.  And  a  fair  picture  she  made, 
for  the  woman  was  comely,  and  her  face  was  such  as 
painters  use  for  a  Mater  Dolorosa. 

The  minister  and  his  wife  had  both  risen  to  their 
feet  when  Mary  entered  the  room ;  and  he,  fearing 
she  would  faint  and  fall,  pushed  aside  his  chair  and 
crossed  quickly  to  her  side. 

"Your  child?"  he  said,  sharply.  "What  is  the 
matter?" 

She  suffered  herself  to  be  led  to  the  sofa  by  the 
window.     "Stolen,"  she  gasped ;    "stolen." 

Mrs.  Noel  gave  a  nervous  little  cry. 

"Stolen?"  repeated  Noel.     "By  whom?" 

36 


The  Theft  of  the  Firstborn 

"By  an  Indian  girl  —  an  hour  ago.    John  was  —  " 

"Never  mind  John  now.     Who  was  the  girl?" 

"Sequa,"  she  answered  him.        ■• 

Then  he  knew  what  had  kept  Sequa  from  the 
parsonage.    He  began  pacing  backward  and  forward. 

"Now  tell  us  how  it  happened.  Begin  at  the  first, 
and  tell  even  the  slightest  circumstance,"  he  said, 
with  the  ring  of  kindness  again  in  his  voice. 

She  did  as  she  was  told.  The  stcfry  was  a  simple 
one.  Mary's  recital  made  it  graphic,  and  her  facts  were 
unencumbered  with  supposition. 

She  had  gone  to  the  kitchen  to  prepare  the  evening 
meal  for  herself  and  her  brother  John.  The  babe  she 
had  left  sitting  on  the  floor  encircled  by  his  toys. 
Suddenly  it  came  to  her  that  the  little  fellow  was 
quieter  than  was  his  wont.  Stepping  to  the  doorway 
she  looked  into  her  room.  The  child  was  gone.  She 
ran  to  the  outer  door.  John  was  hoeing  in  the  field  by 
the  river.  She  tried  to  call.  Her  voice  failed  her. 
Then,  from  the  edge  of  the  forest  she  heard  something 
like  a  laugh.  Turning  quickly  she  saw  the  graceful 
figure  of  an  Indian  girl  sweeping  down  the  path  to  the 
wood.  She  tried  to  follow  her,  but  a  deathly  faintness 
came  over  her.  A  little  sapling  stood  by  the  door-step, 
and  she  reached  out  for  it  to  help  her  until  the  giddiness 
passed  away.  At  the  bending  of  the  path  the  Indian 
girl  looked  back.  The  face  was  the  face  of  Sequa. 
She  was  laughing,  and  held  a  bundle  in  her  arms. 
Then  the  earth  and  woods  and  Sequa's  bronzed  face 
seemed  to  whirl  about  before  her  eyes.  Myriad  stars 
flashed  before  her,  the  ground  under  her  feet  rose  up 
like  a  great  black  sea,  and  she  felt  herself  falling, 

27 


Wallannah 

falling,  until  her  brother's  voice  awoke  her.  Then  she 
was  in  her  room  and  on  her  bed,  with  John  binding 
her  head  in  wet  tSwels. 

When  she  had  finished  her  story,  the  minister, 
standing  by  the  table,  regarded  her  thoughtfully. 

"Have  you  ever  done  anything  to  offend  Sequa?" 
he  asked,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

She  shook  her  head.    "Never,"  she  answered. 

"Or  any  of  her  friends,  or  people?" 

"No." 

"Did  John  Matthews,  your  husband,  ever  speak  of 
her?" 

Mary  affirmed  that  Matthews  had  never  known  the 
woman. 

"Then,"  he  said,  "you  know  of  no  reason  for  this 
act  of  hers?" 

"Not  the  slightest."  The  look  of  appeal  was  still 
in  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  trembled  visibly. 

Noel  looked  across  at  his  wife. 

"Alice,"  he  said,  in  his  firm,  quiet  voice;  "ask 
Henry  to  bring  Tetah  here."  Scarcely  had  the  words 
left  his  lips  when  Henry  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Mars'  Noel,"  the  negro  said,  "the  Injun  Teeter 
says  as  he  wants  to  see  you." 

"Send  him  here." 

Then,  with  the  shuffle  of  moccasined  feet  and  the 
rattle  of  many  beads,  the  chieftain  entered  the  room. 
Giving  a  quick  glance  into  the  faces  of  the  two  women, 
he  crossed  to  where  the  minister  stood  to  meet  him. 
With  a  gesture  of  greeting,  the  Indian  spoke. 

"You  see  Sequa?"  he  asked,  in  low,  musical  tones. 

"No;    she  did  not  come,"  responded  Noel.     Then, 

28 


The  Theft  of  the  Firstborn 

closely  watching  the  chieftain's  face,  "Do  you  know 
why?" 

The  strong,  deep  lines  of  Tetah's  face  showed  no 
change  from  the  look  of  truth  which  was  stamped 
there. 

"Sequa  find  trouble,"  was  his  laconic  answer. 

Noel  kept  his  eyes  on  the  scarred  features  before 
him.    "Trouble?"  he  asked.    "What  kind  of  trouble?" 

"Tetah  not  know." 

"Has  she  been  to  your  house?" 

"Yes.    Sleep  all  day." 

"Was  she  alone?" 

The  Indian  nodded  affirmatively. 

"When  did  she  go  away?" 

"When  sun  go." 

"And  which  way?" 

"Up  river." 

"Have  you  seen  her  since?" 

"No." 

"Then  why  do  you  think  she  has  met  with  trouble  ?" 

"Sequa  no  eat  good  —  no  come  see  white  chief  — 
Peoperquinaiqua.     Sequa  trouble." 

Despite  the  seriousness  of  the  matter  in  hand,  Noel 
smiled  at  the  force  of  the  Indian's  reasoning. 

"Why  have  you  come  here?"  he  asked. 

"Peoperquinaiqua  good  man  —  good  heart,  good 
head.     Tell  what  trouble  Sequa?" 

Noel  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said,  slowly.  Then, 
after  a  moment's  silence,  "Go  and  find  Sequa.  I'll 
wait  for  you  until  midnight." 

Without  more  ado  Tetah  turned  on  his  heel  and 
left  the  room. 

29 


Wallannah 

The  minister  took  his  seat  by  his  wife.  Mrs.  Noel 
was  the  first  to  speak.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  him 
that  Sequa  had  stolen  Mary's  child?"  she  asked,  with 
womanly  resentment.    Noel  smiled. 

"Tetah  is  an  Indian:  Sequa  is  his  daughter,"  he 
answered.  "Had  I  told  him  all  that  we  know,  he  would 
justify  her  course  and  we  would  lose  an  ally." 

"But  if  he  finds  her  with  the  child?" 

"He  will  bring  her  here,  child  and  all." 

"And  if  he  doesn't  find  her?" 

"Some  one  else  will." 

"But  who?" 

He  turned  his  head  slowly,  looking  first  at  his  wife, 
then  at  Mary. 

"That  is  a  question,"  he  said,  at  last. 

Mrs.  Noel  gave  an  impatient  tap  of  her  foot. 

"James  Noel,  you  are  so  provoking.  Of  course  it's 
a  question.    Who  will  find  her  ?" 

Had  Mary  not  been  there,  Noel's  answer  would 
have  been,  "Perhaps  no  one."  As  it  was,  he  looked 
earnestly  into  the  white  face  which  turned  with  its 
mute  appeal  to  meet  his  answer. 

"No  mortal  can  tell  you  that,"  he  answered,  kindly. 
"I  will  try ;  and  Mary's  brother  can  do  much.  Beyond 
that  —  "    He  paused  a  moment. 

"Beyond  that?"  reminded  Mrs.  Noel. 

He  looked  thoughtfully  toward  her. 

"Beyond  that,"  he  said,  slowly  —  and  the  wheels 
of  Fate  were  whirling  fast  as  he  spoke  —  "beyond  that, 
I  know  of  but  two  who  can  give  us  aid.  One  is  Tetah, 
the  other  John  Cantwell,  of  New  Bern." 

"Cantwell?"  repeated  his  wife,  musingly.     "Oh! 

30 


The  Theft  of  the  Firstborn 

yes ;  'Squire  Cantvvell ;  and  he  knows  all  about  Indians, 
doesn't  he?" 

"Not  all:  no  one  can  claim  that.  But  he  knows 
more  than  any  man  in  the  province,  except,  perhaps, 
the  hunters  who  live  among  them." 

Mrs.  Noel  had  crossed  the  room,  and,  sitting 
beside  Mary,  had  slipped  her  hand  into  that  of  the 
broken-hearted  woman. 

"You  will  ask  'Squire  Cantwell  to  help  us?"  she 
asked. 

"I  will  write  to  him  now.  If  Tetah  comes  back 
alone,  Henry  will  start  with  the  letter  to  the  'Squire." 
Then,  turning  to  Mary,  "May  God  be  good  to  you!" 
he  said,  a  little  huskily.  "I  feel  your  grief  more  than 
I  can  tell." 

Then  he  left  them  together,  which  was  wise  in  him ; 
for  a  man  can  give  little  comfort  to  a  woman  in 
bereavement,  save  when  the  tie  of  love  is  between 
them.  But  two  women  —  that  is  a  different  matter; 
and  Mrs.  Noel,  with  the  tact  and  resource  of  the 
highly-bred,  brought  comfort  to  Mary's  heart,  and 
hope  into  her  night  of  trouble. 

The  hours  passed  with  sullen,  grudging  slowness. 
In  the  study  the  letter  to  Cantwell  was  written  and 
sealed  for  its  sending.  In  the  other  room  the  minister's 
wife,  in  low  tones  and  v/ith  tender  words,  was  bringing 
some  little  cheer  into  Mary  Ross's  life.  At  last  the 
time  came.  On  the  stroke  of  twelve  the  study  door 
opened,  and  Noel  entered  the  dining-room  from  one 
side  as  Henry  and  Tetah  came  in  at  the  other. 

The  Indian  stood  like  a  bronze  statue  under  the 
light  of  the  hanging  lamp.    In  breathless  silence  they 

31 


Wallannah 

waited  for  him  to  speak ;  but  he  said  nothing.  Raising 
his  eyes  to  the  minister's  face,  he  held  out  his  open 
hands,  palms  upward  and  empty.  The  eloquence  of  the 
simple  gesture  was  unmistakeable.  He  meant  that  he 
had  sought  Sequa  and  had  failed  to  find  her. 

Mary,  sobbing  bitterly,  sank  back  into  her  seat. 

Tetah  gave  her  one  quick  glance,  then  with  stolid 
demeanor  turned  from  them  and  left  the  house. 

Thus  it  was  that  an  hour  later  Henry,  astride  his 
master's  horse,  took  the  New  Bern  road,  bearing  Noel's 
plea  to  Cantwell.  And  Mary  again  took  heart  and 
looked  to  the  morrow  with  a  new  hope,  for  she  knew 
no  Cantwell.  Truly,  the  'Squire  had  woven  a  devil's 
net,  and  the  powers  of  darkness  seemed  to  have  labored 
with  him. 


32 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting 


CHAPTER  III 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting 


front 


HE  home  of  the  Noels  was  among  the  better 

looking    houses    in    the    village.      It    was 

strongly  built,  and  within  its  walls  were 

several  rooms  and  a  long  passage-way  from 

to  back.     It  stood  upon  a  terraced  knoll,  and 


between  it  and  the  winding,  unpaved  street  lay  a  grass 
plot,  broad  and  smooth  and  of  a  cheering  green.  The 
house,  though  well  constructed,  was  not  a  cool  one, 
and  for  this  reason  Mr.  Noel  had  erected  on  the  lawn 
an  arbor,  now  covered  with  vines  ;  and  he  and  his  wife 
often  sat  there,  for  it  was  cool  and  shady  and  gave  an 
unobstructed  view  of  the  river  as  it  crept  past  the 
village  and  rounded  the  bend  toward  the  sound. 

The  day  after  that  on  which  Mary  had  lost  her  child 
was  sultry  and  oppressive.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon. 
Mary  had  returned  to  her  woodland  home,  there  to 
await  news  from  'Squire  Cantwell,  and  the  minister 
and  his  wife  were  spending  an  hour  in  the  arbor  while 
the  baby  Alice  slept  within  the  house.  They  had  been 
talking  of  England,  and  of  their  life  in  the  days  before 
they  came  to  America.  After  a  brief  silence,  during 
which  the  minister,  his  mind  far  away  from  Carolina, 
stared  with  grave,  unseeing  eyes  down  the  sweep  of  the 
Neuse,  and  his  wife  bent  her  fair  young  face  over  a 

33 


Wallannah 

lapful  of  embroidery — Noel  returned  to  their  former 
theme. 

"From  all  the  talking  that  I  do,"  he  ^aid,  turning 
away  from  the  river  and  looking  down  at  her,  "one 
might  think  that  I  wanted  to  go  back  again;  but  I 
cannot  say  that  I  do.  True,  England  is  dear  to  me,  but 
America  is  dearer,  so  long  as  you  are  here  with  me." 

She  raised  her  head,  and  answered  him  with  a  smile 
of  appreciation. 

"We  have  sacrificed  more  than  we  would  if  we  had 
stayed  in  the  old  home  parish,"  he  continued,  when  she 
had  returned  to  her  needlework;  "but  I  feel  that  the 
reward  has  been  perfectly  adequate.  Still,  with  all  our 
contentment,  I  am  inclined  to  worry  over  one  or  two 
matters." 

She  looked  up  again,  and  laughed  with  the  same 
low,  musical  laugh  that  had  won  his  heart  years  before. 
"Worry?"  she  said.  "Why,  James,  you  couldn't  if  you 
tried  —  really  you  couldn't." 

He  shook  his  head.  "You  over-estimate  my 
optimism,  Elsie,"  he  said,  with  a  smile ;  "but,  seriously, 
my  brother  Henry  has  been  ill  for  many  months,  and 
I  fear  that  any  ship  may  bring  me  news  of  his  death." 

"Y-es,"  was  the  doubtful  response,  "it  may  come ; 
but  men  who  are  ill  so  long  seldom  die  suddenly.  You 
would  have  heard  long  since  if  Henry's  illness  had 
become  serious." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right." 

Then  they  relapsed  into  a  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  faint  sound  of  the  thread  drawn  through  the  linen 
on  Mrs.  Noel's  embroidery  frame. 

The  minister  sat  leaning  slightly  forward,  his  chin 

34 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting 

upon  his  hand  and  his  eyes  following  the  flight  of  a 
gull  which  soared  above  the  river.  Then  his  gaze 
dropped  a  little,  and  was  fixed  on  a  tiny  speck  in  the 
middle  of  the  broad  sweep  of  the  river.  As  the  spot 
grew  larger  the  minister's  preoccupied  look  gave  place 
to  one  of  eager  interest;  and  when  the  dot  on  the 
water's  surface  became  an  eight-oared  gig  with  a 
gleam  of  the  royal  blue  at  its  helm,  he  began  to  hum  an 
old  sea  song,  learned  on  the  wharves  of  Hull  in  the 
days  of  his  boyhood.    His  wife  looked  up  at  him. 

''Why,  James,"  she  said,  in  wonder  at  his  change  of 
mood,  "how  can  one  tell  when  you  are  serious  and 
when  gay  ?    What  have  you  done  with  your  cares  ?" 

He  nodded  toward  the  boat  in  the  river.  "Of  his 
Majesty's  navy,"  he  said,  with  gladness  in  his  voice. 
"Perhaps  some  one  we  have  seen  before  —  at  any 
rate,  a  real  human  being  who  can  tell  us  of  the  world 
outside." 

They  watched  the  boat  draw  nearer.  It  seemed  a 
long  time  before  the  oarsmen  reached  the  Neusioc 
shore ;  but  when  that  time  did  come,  the  boat,  with  a 
quick  half-turn,  swung  with  gunwale  to  the  landing, 
and  a  light,  active  form  sprang  upon  the  bank. 

The  minister  and  his  wife,  from  their  distant  point 
of  vantage,  could  see  only  the  quick,  imperative 
gestures  which  emphasized  the  officer's  commands. 
Then  he  turned  away  from  his  men  and  was  lost  in 
the  bushes  that  overhung  the  path  to  the  parsonage. 

Five  minutes  later  the  officer,  emerging  from  the 
thicket  that  bordered  the  field  opposite  the  Noel  house, 
walked  quickly  across  the  intervening  space.  He 
reached  the  front  gate,  where  Mr.  Noel  waited  to  give 

35 


Wallannah 

him  welcome.  Taking  him  by  the  hand,  the  minister 
led  him  to  the  arbor. 

"Elsie,"  he  said,  with  a  boyish  ring  of  gladness  in 
his  voice,  "here  is  Lieutenant  Maynard.  But  where  is 
our  fatted  calf?" 

Mrs.  Noel  arose  and  held  out  her  hand.  "We  're 
very,  very  glad  to  see  you  again.  Lieutenant;  but 
do  n't  let  Mr.  Noel's  allusion  to  the  fatted  calf  lead 
you  to  believe  that  you  are  altogether  a  prodigal  in 
our  eyes." 

Maynard,  bowing  graciously,  smiled  at  her  laughing 
welcome. 

"Even  though  I  had  wasted  my  substance  in  riotous 
living,"  he  said,  "and  would  fain  have  eaten  of  the 
food  of  the  swine,  you  know,  Mrs.  Noel,  that  I  could 
not  have  been  happier  in  meeting  you  and  this  reverend 
husband  of  yours  than  I  am  now.  But,  first,  my  dear 
Noel,  let  me  give  you  a  despatch  from  England.  It 
should  have  been  sent  by  a  less  busy  boat.  The  Wasp 
has  been  forced  to  wing  her  way  in  great  zigzags,  here, 
there  and  everywhere,  since  that  letter  was  handed  me. 
Read  it  now,  while  I  deliver  a  cargo  of  woman's 
messages  to  Mrs.  Noel,  My  wife  saw  me  for  only  an 
hour  in  New  Bern  this  morning,  but  she  told  me 
enough  news — for  Mrs.  Noel's  ears,  of  course — to  keep 
a  man's  tongue  busy  for  a  whole  day." 

The  minister  stepped  to  one  side  to  read  the  letter, 
while  the  lieutenant,  taking  his  place  beside  Mrs.  Noel, 
continued  his  conversation. 

Maynard  was  a  splendid  type  of  the  British  naval 
officer  of  that  day.  Though  tall  and  somewhat  spare  in 
build,  his  tightly-fitting  uniform  displayed  a  muscular 

36 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting 

development  suggesting  the  sinewy  agility  of  a  panther. 
His  eyes  flashed  whenever  he  spoke,  sometimes  with  a 
gleam  of  merriment,  again  with  a  blaze  that  more  than 
one  man  had  learned  to  fear.  There  were  other  times 
when  the  fire  in  those  hazel  depths  was  subdued  into  a 
tenderness  that  made  women  wonder  whether  or  not 
the  stories  of  this  man's  terrible  deeds  of  war  could  be 
true.  And  such  was  the  light  that  shone  upon  Mrs. 
Noel  as  Maynard  told  her,  with  a  thrill  of  pride  in 
his  voice,  of  his  wife  and  the  baby  Arthur,  in  the 
governor's  town  of  New  Bern,  thirty  miles  down  the 
river. 

"Margaret  thinks,"  he  was  saying,  "that  the  boy  is 
the  greatest  prodigy  of  the  eighteenth  century ;  and  I 
don't  know  but  what  he  is.  If  he  does  all  that  his 
mother  claims,  he'll  be  a  statesman  before  he  outgrows 
his  dresses.  But  where  is  his  little  fiancee,  Alice?  I 
thought  to  see  her  running  about  here  cracking  her 
dolls'  heads  against  the  trees,  and  — " 

"Why,  Will  Maynard,  she's  only  eight  months  old !" 

"Eight  months?  Well,  Arthur  has  hardly  a  year 
and  a  half  advantage  of  her,  and  he  can  run  and  jump 
and  ride  horseback,  and — " 

"What  terrible  men  you  sailors  are !  Ananias  must 
have  held  a  commission  in  the  king's  navy." 

Maynard  laughed.  "No,  Mrs.  Noel.  Not  only 
could  Ananias  prove  an  alibi,  but  remember  that  the 
record  says  that  he  gave  up  the  ghost.  An  officer  in 
his  Majesty's  service  never  gives  up  anything." 

"Hush!"  whispered  Mrs.  Noel,  with  a  gleam  of 
laughter  in  her  eyes.  "Don't  let  James  hear  anything 
like  that.    He'd  preach  about  it  next  Sunday." 

37 


Wallannah 

"On  my  honor,  I'll  keep  clear  of  such  entanglements. 
But  where  is  the  baby  Alice?  May  I  see  her  before  I 
go?  I'm  here  only  for  the  hour,  and  must  sail  for 
England  to-morrow." 

"So  soon?    Can't  you  stay  the  week  out?" 

Maynard  shook  his  head. 

"You  are  going  to  England?"  Mr.  Noel  asked, 
suddenly,  folding  his  letter  and  approaching  them. 

"My  orders  so  read." 

"Very  soon?" 

"To-morrow." 

Mrs,  Noel  looked  curiously  at  her  husband.  His 
face  was  a  trifle  pale.  "What  is  it,  James  ?"  she  asked 
anxiously.    "Bad  news?" 

The  minister  smiled  and  rested  his  hand  upon  her 
shoulder.  "Nothing  so  very  serious,  Elsie;  but  go 
now,  and  see  why  Alice  is  crying.  The  Lieutenant  and 
I  must  talk  over  some  business." 

The  two  men  watched  her  as  she  crossed  the  lawn 
and  entered  the  house.  Then  the  minister  turned 
quickly  to  his  companion. 

"I,  too,  am  called  to  England." 

Maynard  gave  a  low  exclamation.  "You  are?"  he 
said,  gravely.    "I'm  sorry.    Can't  you  — " 

"No,  I  must  go.  My  brother  Henry,  Lord  Durham, 
is  so  ill  that  he  may  die  before  I  can  reach  Lincolnshire. 
In  any  event,  I  must  be  there  as  soon  as  possible.  Can 
you  take  me  on  the  Wasp?" 

"Certainly,  if  you  can  get  ready  in  time  —  say  in  an 
hour.    Family  going  with  you  ?" 

"No;  impossible.  But  if  I  do  not  return  within 
two   or    three    months,    they   must    follow.      In   the 

38 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting 

meantime,  they  will  be  safe  enough  here,  although  it 
will  be  terribly  lonely." 

"It  will,  indeed.  But  you  can  arrange  for  Mrs. 
Noel  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Maynard  during  your  absence. 
It  would  be  a  godsend  to  my  wife,  for  she,  poor  woman, 
is  doomed  to  more  than  her  share  of  that  sort  of 
privation." 

"Thank  you,  Maynard.  You  have  anticipated  my 
wish.  She  will  need  some  little  time  to  make  her  own 
plans ;  but  I  accept  your  invitation  with  what  may  be 
unseemly  haste.  Elsie,  I  know,  will  be  delighted  with 
the  arrangement.    Here  she  comes  now." 

The  whole  world  knows  that  women  are  not  alike 
in  their  way  of  hearing  bad  news.  Some  meet  the 
shock  with  a  gasp  that  ends  in  a  flood  of  tears  and 
complete  collapse  of  all  that  goes  to  the  making  of  the 
nervous  system.  Others  turn  a  little  white,  smile 
through  the  faintest  possible  mist  of  tears,  then  with 
Spartan  courage  face  the  trouble  stout-heartedly  and 
with  unbending  resolve.  Of  the  latter  kind  was 
Mrs.  Noel. 

But  an  hour  before  feeling  secure,  even  in  that 
wilderness,  with  her  husband  to  stand  between  her  and 
the  rough  world  about  them,  she  was  now  brought  to 
face  months  of  separation,  with  danger  lurking  on 
every  side :  for  the  Indians  had  not  yet  learned  the 
respect  due  a  white  man's  home  and  kind,  and  what 
was  now  a  peaceful,  thriving  hamlet  might  at  any  hour 
flow  with  blood  and  echo  with  the  war-whoop  and 
gun-shot  of  a  horde  of  savage  enemies. 

Yet,  when  Noel  told  her  that  Maynard's  ship  was 
come  to  bear  him  away  to   England,   she  made  no 

39 


Wallannah 

murmur  of  complaint,  but  looked  him  fairly  in  the  face 
and  asked  if  he  would  be  very  long  away.  Then 
Maynard  went  down  to  his  boat  while  the  two  made 
ready  for  Air.  Noel's  departure,  and  formed  hasty 
plans  for  the  time  when  the  minister  should  be  in 
England. 

Returning  an  hour  later,  the  lieutenant  met  them  at 
their  door.  "Before  we  go,"  he  said,  cheerily,  "can  I 
not  see  the  little  girl  ?" 

Mrs.  Noel's  face,  despite  its  marks  of  tears,  was 
wreathed  in  smiles.  "Indeed  you  shall,"  she  exclaimed, 
leading  the  way  to  the  house.  "You'll  find  her  waiting 
for  you." 

They  entered  the  room  together.  In  a  canopied 
crib  in  one  corner  of  the  apartment,  lay  the  child.  Her 
great  blue  eyes  were  open,  and  fixed  themselves  upon 
Maynard  as  the  three  bent  over  the  crib.  Mrs.  Noel 
took  her  in  her  arms. 

"Look  at  this  great  tall  man,  Alice.  He's  little 
Arthur's  father,  and  little  Arthur,  you  know,  is  going 
to  be  a  great  big  man  like  this  one  is,  and  you  are 
going  to  be  his  wife.    Are  you  glad  ?" 

The  baby's  mouth  opened  in  a  droll,  childish  laugh, 
and  she  stretched  out  her  chubby  arms  to  Maynard. 

"That  settles  it,"  laughed  Maynard.  "She  can  hear 
the  wedding  bells  now."  Then  after  a  few  words  of 
the  flattery  which  women  love — although  they  say 
not — the  lieutenant  led  the  way  from  the  house. 

Together  they  went  down  the  path,  Maynard 
walking  ahead,  and  after  him  the  minister  and  his 
wife,  trying  each  to  cheer  the  other.  The  ship's  gig, 
guided  by  a  stout  sailor  named  McFaddin,  came  from 

40 


A  Meeting  and  a  Parting 

behind  a  clump  of  willows  and  lay  alongside  the 
landing.  The  lieutenant  and  Mr.  Noel  stepped  aboard, 
the  oars  dipped  into  the  stream,  and  the  journey  was 
begun. 

Mrs.  Noel  stood  on  the  bank  and  watched  the  boat 
until  it  swept  around  the  bend ;  while  the  minister, 
looking  back  toward  the  little  village,  saw  standing  on 
the  shore  the  frail  woman  whose  sweet  face  and  lovelit 
eyes  as  they  then  looked  were  fixed  in  his  mind 
through  all  the  years  that  came  after. 

Alone  she  stood  there,  a  slight  figure  clad  in  creamy 
white.  She  gave  one  last  look  down  the  bare  expanse 
of  water,  and  a  sob  rose  in  her  throat  as  she  cried  out 
into  the  solitude,  "Oh!  James,  when  shall  I  see  you 
again?"  In  her  frenzied  fancy  she  thought  that  she 
heard  an  answer.  Startled,  she  turned  and  looked  up. 
A  white-throated  kingfisher  darted  past  her  with  a 
hoarse  cry.  She  shuddered,  for  the  sound  was  an 
ill-omened  one  and  the  bird  seemed  to  laugh  in  her 
face. 


4T 


Wallannah 


CHAPTER  IV 

Consuming  Flames 

N  after  days,  when  the  man's  deeds  were 
known  to  the  world,  the  people  of  New  Bern 
wondered  greatly  that  John  Cantwell  had 
for  more  than  a  score  of  years  stood  in  their 
eyes  a  lype  of  the  upright  man.  And,  viewing  his  life 
in  the  light  of  his  deeds,  strange  indeed  does  it  seem 
that  his  cloak  had  never  fallen  from  him.  True,  some 
had  seen  what  lay  behind  the  veil  of  his  great  deceit, 
but  these  were  silent  for  many  years;  and  two,  who 
knew  quite  as  much  as  any  of  the  others,  never  spoke 
save  in  the  after-evidence  which  mortal  power  could 
not  control. 

Deeply  laid  were  Cantwell's  plots,  and  no  one  man, 
or  woman  either,  knew  a  tenth  part  of  them  all.  Yet 
their  very  mystery,  and  the  perfect  ease  with  which 
they  passed  on  to  success,  made  the  weakest  link  in  the 
chain  of  circumstance  that  brought  the  after  ruin. 
And,  with  it  all,  twice — ^yea,  thrice — did  he  plot  beyond 
his  own  great  reach.  Had  it  not  been  for  this 
over-stepping  he  would  have  died  as  he  had  lived, 
honored  and  respected  by  all  except  those — few  in 
number  as  the  fingers  of  a  man's  one  hand — who  knew 
the  fellow  for  what  he  was. 

As  on  a  playhouse  stage  the  paint  and  the  sham 

42 


Consuming  Flames 

seem  naught  but  the  veriest  truth,  so  in  Cantwell's  Hfe 
did  everything  which  the  ingenuity  of  a  devil's  craft 
could  work  to  that  end  proclaim  to  the  world  virtues 
which  were  but  an  empty  show  hung  upon  a  fabric  of 
treachery  and  falsehood. 

Nowhere  was  the  man's  machinery  of  hypocrisy 
more  glaring  than  in  the  office-room  in  which  he 
handled  his  West  Indian  trade  and  voiced  the 
thunderings  of  the  law.  Upon  its  walls  were  hung 
prints  from  the  masters,  of  The  Crucifixion,  The 
Temptation,  The  Death  of  Ananias  and  Sapphira,  and 
Daniel  in  the  Lions'  Den.  Besides  these,  in  gilded 
frames,  were  the  Ten  Commandments,  with  illuminated 
border,  and  a  chart  exhibiting  some  man's  notion  of  a 
Christian's  path  to  heaven ;  which  last  must  have  had 
its  irony  in  Cantwell's  mind.  Then,  over  the  desk  at 
which  the  'Squire  w^as  wont  to  write  his  bills,  his  briefs, 
and  his  sermons,  were  three  framed  mottoes,  blazoned 
in  great  letters  of  crimson  and  gold :  "Waste  Not,  Want 
Not,"  "Everything  in  its  Time,"  and  "Honesty  is  the 
Best  Policy."  The  first  two  were  well  enough;  but 
the  third — well,  Cantwell  kept  it  as  a  man  listens  to 
an  adversary's  argument,  because  he  took  no  stock 
in  it. 

The  morning  was  half  gone.  Cantwell,  seated  at 
his  desk,  seemed  awaiting  a  visitor. 

Although  he  sat  very  quietly,  scanning  with  more 
than  casual  interest  the  pages  of  a  bulky  work  on 
chemistry,  his  eyes  were  often  raised  to  the  window 
that  opened  toward  the  street,  and  several  times  within 
the  half  hour  had  he  looked  at  his  watch  and  frowned. 
He  was  waiting,  and  impatient;    yet  when  a  knock 

43 


Wallannah 

sounded  upon  the  door  he  gave  a  sudden  sta  and 
half  arose  from  his  seat.  Then  he  smiled  'and  sank 
back  into  the  chair.    The  knock  was  repeated. 

"Come  in,"  called  Cantwell. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  servant.  "Mrs. 
Maynard,"  was  the  announcement.  The  'Squire  rose,, 
and  moved  toward  the  door.  His  visitor,  superb  and 
queenly  in  mien  and  dress,  met  him  at  the  entrance. 

"My  dear  cousin,"  exclaimed  Cantwell,  with  open 
admiration  in  his  restless  eyes,  "you  excel  even  yourself 
this  morning.  I  feel  amply  repaid  for  the  hour  I  have 
waited." 

Mrs.  Maynard  laughed  lightly  as  releasing  her 
hand  from  his  over-ardent  grasp  she  crossed  to  a  chair 
by  the  window.  "An  hour,  you  say!  Well,  forgive 
me;  my  little  Belgian  clock  is  dropping  backward  in 
the  race.    But,  really,  I  — " 

"No,  no,  no ;  the  delay  caused  me  no  inconvenience, 
be  assured  of  that."  The  'Squire,  with  a  stately  bow, 
returned  to  a  seat  at  his  desk.  "The  lieutenant  sailed 
yesterday,  I  saw ;  and  the  worthy  Mr.  Noel,  also.  God 
speed  them  both." 

Mrs.  Maynard  nodded  her  acknowledgment.  Her 
woman's  discernment  had  caught  the  indifference 
which  lay  beneath  the  'Squire's  fair-spoken  phrases, 
and  she  wasted  no  words  in  replying. 

The  'Squire  smiled  urbanely. 

"And  little  Arthur  — how  is  he?" 

"But  slightly  better.  The  medicine  you  gave  the 
other  day  seems  to  make  the  little  fellow  drowsy  and 
dull.    Did  you  intend  that  it  should  ?" 

'Squire   Cantwell's   face  was  averted  as  he  bent 

44 


Consuming  Flames 

over  his  desk  to  sharpen  a  quill.  After  a  moment  he 
looked  up. 

"Well  —  hardly,"  was  his  slow  response,  "but  there 
are  conditions,  particularly  in  so  young  a  patient,  when 
almost  any  medicine  would  cause  some  degree  of 
lethargy.    But  there  is  really  no  cause  for  anxiety." 

"You  think,  then,  that  the  child  is  not  seriously  ill  ?" 

"Seriously!  Indeed,  no.  Were  he  so,  I  should 
send  you  to  Doctor  Boggs.  The  boy  is  doing  well,  very 
well  indeed." 

Cantwell  smiled  blandly  as  he  voiced  his  opinion, 
for  he  took  pride  in  his  knowledge  of  nostrums.  Then 
he  leaned  forward  with  his  elbows  on  the  desk. 

"Now,  Margaret,"  he  said,  with  a  certain 
business-like  brusqueness,  "you  told  me  you  had  some 
papers  to  be  examined — something  of  a  legal  nature, 
as  I  understand." 

Mrs.  Maynard  took  a  small  bundle  of  documents 
from  her  hand-bag. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "my  husband  advised  me  to  have 
you  register  these  papers,  if  you  thought  it  necessary 
to  give  them  legal  force.  One  of  them,  I  believe,  may 
be  of  personal  interest  to  you." 

'Squire  Cantwell  took  the  documents  and  rapidly 
read  them  through.  Mrs.  Maynard,  as  she  watched 
him,  could  well  have  been  the  model  for  a  painter's 
masterpiece.  The  rich  harmony  of  the  deep  brown  of 
her  eyes  and  the  raven  blackness  of  her  hair  with  the 
rose  of  her  cheeks  and  the  vivid  blood-red  of  her  lips 
would  have  made  her  singularly  beautiful,  even  had 
her  features  been  less  striking  than  they  were.  That 
great  statesman,  Governor  Gabriel  Johnston,  had  said 

45 


Wallannah 

that  Margaret  Dudley  Maynard  was  the  loveliest 
woman  in  the  American  provinces ;  whereat  Lord 
Keightley,  scanning  her  classic  features  and  meeting 
the  look  of  her  great  dark  eyes,  had  said,  "Your 
Excellency  means  the  loveliest  woman  in  the  universe." 
And  the  old  lord  seldom  spoke  praise  of  any  woman. 

At  last  Cantwell  laid  the  papers  aside  and  looked  up 
at  the  lieutenant's  wife. 

"This  last  paper  does  interest  me,"  he  said,  slowly, 
tapping  with  his  long  index  finger  the  back  of  an 
elaborately  engrossed  deed;  "but  only  upon  your 
account  and  that  of  your  husband.  The  interest  of 
remainder  vesting  in  me  rests  upon  a  contingency  that 
probably  will  not  occur.  Your  possession,  cousin,  is 
almost  absolute." 

"But  if  my  son  should  die  before  reaching  the  age 
of  twelve  ?" 

"In  that  case  the  property,  at  your  death,  might 
revert  to  me  or  my  heirs.  But  in  the  first  place,  your 
little  Arthur  is  not  likely  to  die  within  the  next  ten 
years;  children  under  such  circumstances  seldom  do. 
And  then,  if  you  will  notice,  the  language  of  this 
conveyance  is,  that  if  you  have  no  son  who  shall  reach 
the  age  of  twelve  years,  then,  and  then  only,  shall  'all 
the  goods  and  chattels,  real  and  personal,  herein  above 
described,  be  conveyed  to  John  M.  Cantwell' ;  and  so 
forth.  It  does  not  say  that  this  particular  son  must  be 
twelve  years  of  age,  but  a  son,  any  son ;  and  remember, 
Margaret,  that  you  are  practically  at  the  beginning  of 
what  may  be  a  long  married  life ;  there  might  be  — " 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Maynard,  lowering  her 
eyes,  "there  might;   but  still  'a  son'  may  prove  to  be 

46 


Consuming  Flames 

this  son  only."  A  smile  crossed  the  face  of  the 
justice. 

"That  remains  to  be  seen.  But,"  and  he  dropped 
the  documents  into  a  desk  drawer,  "you  have  not  told 
me,  cousin,  why  this  brother,  Richard  Dudley,  did  not 
leave  you  his  property  without  conditions." 

"He  and  my  husband  had  some  misunderstanding, 
the  work,  perhaps,  of  a  secret  enemy,"  In  her 
earnestness,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  The  'Squire's 
face  was  expressionless  as  marble. 

"But,  passing  over  that,"  she  continued,  quickly; 
"the  papers  will  require  registration?" 

"Undoubtedly.  I  will  have  it  done  to-day.  Now," 
and  he  arose  from  his  chair  and  cam.e  toward  her,  "is 
there  anything  else  you  wish  done?" 

"Yes.  I  want  a  good  safe  boat  with  two 
trustworthy  men,  the  day  after  to-morrow.  I'm  going 
up  to  Neusioc  to  bring  down  Mrs.  Noel,  the  minister's 
wife.  Our  husbands  have  gone  away  together  and 
we  think  it  only  fair  that  we,  too,  should  join  forces; 
so  I've  asked  her  to  come  down  to  spend  a  month  with 
me.    You  can  get  me  the  boat?" 

"To  be  sure.    I'll  send  McFaddin  and  another  good 


man." 


"McFaddin  ?    I  thought  he  belonged  to  the  Wasp." 

"He  did  up  to  the  hour  she  sailed.  His  time 
expired,  and  I've  hired  him  for  the  Leopard." 

"Ah,  yes.  And  you're  sure  the  boat  won't  leak? 
I'm—  But,  quick!  Who  is  that?"  She  and  Cantwell, 
rising  hastily,  reached  the  window  at  the  same  time. 

"That?"  The  'Squire  laughed.  "A  young  squaw 
with  a  papoose  strapped  to  her  back.    No  unusual  — " 

47 


Wallannah 

"Go  after  her  —  send  some  one  to  see  if  the  child 
isn't  white."  She  spoke  excitedly.  "Please,  John, 
send  some  one.     I'll  —  I'll  explain  afterward." 

The  'Squire  flushed  as  she  used  his  Christian  name. 
He  opened  the  door  quickly. 

"McFaddin !    AIcFaddin !"  he  called. 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,"  sounded  a  gruff  voice  in  the 
hall. 

Cantwell  stepped  outside  the  door.  A  whispered 
conversation  followed,  and  the  'Squire,  returning,  sat 
down  beside  his  visitor. 

"He  has  gone,"  he  said,  briefly. 

"Thank  you,  very  much.  I  want  to  know  because 
my  husband  and  Mr.  Noel  brought  a  boy  down  from 
Neusioc  yesterday.  He  was  searching  for  an  Indian 
woman  who  had  stolen  his  sister's  child.  I  thought 
the  girl  who  passed  here  might  be  the  one." 

Cantwell's  mask-like  face  seemed  whiter  than  ever. 
"What  was  the  boy's  name?"  he  asked,  looking  down 
as  he  played  with  his  watch-charm. 

"John  Ross." 

"Is  he  here  yet?"  Cantwell  asked,  quickly. 

"No,  I  think  not." 

"Who  is  his  sister?" 

"Mary  Ross  —  Matthews,  rather ;  for  she  married 
some  worthless  fellow,  who  afterward  deserted  her." 

"Ah,  yes.  I  recall  the  case.  An  unprincipled  rascal, 
this  Matthews.  I  met  him  once.  But  who  is  the  Indian 
girl  ?"    He  raised  his  head,  and  their  eyes  met. 

"Sequa,  a  Neusioc." 

The  'Squire's  glance  wavered  a  little,  and  a  quick 
flush  rose  to  his  temples. 

48 


Consuming  Flames 

"Sequa,"  he  repeated,  musingly.  "I  do  not  know 
the  woman,"  But  something  in  his  manner  beUed  his 
words,  and  Mrs.  Maynard's  eyes  flashed  with  a  sudden 
surprise. 

When  he  spoke  again  it  was  upon  another  subject. 

"While  we  wait  for  McFaddin,  have  you  no  other 
business  to  discuss?" 

"Yes,  and  I  nearly  forgot  it,  too.  I  need  some 
money,  Mr.  Agent,  quite  a  little  sum.  After  Mrs.  Noel 
comes  down  here,  she  and  Madame  DeVere  and  I  are 
going  to  Wilmington  for  a  pleasure  trip.  I  am  the 
instigator  of  the  plot,  and  all  expenses  will  be  mine. 
So,  money,  good  'Squire!  Money!"  She  laughed  as 
she  held  out  her  hand. 

"How  much,  cousin?  Times  are  close,  you  know, 
and  rents  hard." 

"Now,  now,  'Squire !  don't  stint,  or  you'll  make  me 
find  another  agent.  Calvin  Brown  paid  you  a  quarter's 
rent  yesterday.  Come  \"  And  she  shook  her  hand 
with  mock  impatience.  The  'Squire,  fairly  beaten,  gave 
a  low  chuckle. 

"Tell  me  when  to  stop,"  he  said,  taking  a  roll  of 
bills  from  his  pocket,  and  counting  them  one  by  one 
into  her  outstretched  palm.  She  spoke  when  Cantwell 
had  but  two  bills  left. 

"Thank  you,  truly.  Keep  the  rest  until  the  next 
time." 

Cantwell  smiled  dryly.  "May  it  be  far  distant, 
cousin.    You  are  — " 

A  great  shouting  came  from  outside  the  house. 

"Fire !"  sounded  a  hoarse  voice  in  the  street. 

"Fire !    Fire !"  echoed  a  dozen  others. 

49 


Wallannah 


Cantwell  rushed  through  the  hall  to  the  front  door. 

"Where  ?"  he  shouted. 

"Lieutenant  ."Maynard's,"  came  the  answer. 

An  anguished  cry  came  from  the  parlor.  "Oh !  my 
child.    My  child  !    Can't  you  save  him  ?" 

Hatless,  the  'Squire  dashed  down  the  steps  and 
darted  up  the  street.  The  alarm  had  been  long  delayed. 
When  he  reached  the  house  it  was  a  mass  of  raging 
flame.  Cantwell  broke  through  the  crowd.  Some  one 
called  him. 

"Too  slow,  'Squire ;  we've  got  the  furniture  —  all 
exceptin'  one  room." 

"Which  room?"  thundered  the  'Squire. 

"The  south  one,"  was  the  answer. 

Cantwell  was  deadly  pale.  Mrs.  IMaynard, 
breathless  and  sobbing,  pushed  through  to  his  side. 

"My  child!"  she  moaned.    "Where  is  he?" 

The  men  looked  stupidly  at  one  another.  One 
hysterical  woman  screamed.  A  tall  negro  with  a 
bloody  rag  about  his  head  elbowed  his  way  to  the 
front. 

"Whar  be  yer  boy,  Missis?" 

"In  the  south  room." 

The  black  shook  his  head. 

"Stairs  is  done  broke.  Missis;    I  went  down  wid 


'em." 


She  seemed  not  to  hear  him. 

"Is  there  no  hope?"  she  asked,  with  slow  utterance, 
like  one  speaking  in  a  dream. 

Cantwell   pointed   to   the   terrible    furnace   before 
them. 

The  answer  was  plain.     From  what  had  been  the 

50 


Consumino:  Flames 


to 


south  wing  the  flames  leaped  in  a  roaring,  twisting 
column  fifty  feet  above  the  walls. 

If  Margaret  Maynard  saw  Cantwell's  gesture  or 
heard  the  words  of  the  throng  about  her,  she  made  no 
sign.  Silent,  motionless,  she  stood  there,  as  senseless 
as  a  statue  carved  in  marble ;  and  upon  her  lips  lingered 
a  faint,  dreamy  smile.  So  it  was  that  they  who  saw 
her  knew  that  somewhere  behind  that  pure  white 
forehead  a  little  vein  or  a  tiny  nerve  had  ceased  its 
working;  and  that  the  woman  knew  naught  of  the 
world  that  moved  about  her. 

Out  on  the  wide  Atlantic,  hugging  the  coast  toward 
the  shoals  of  Hatteras,  reeled  the  IVasp  under  full  sail. 
Her  commander,  leaning  on  the  after-rail,  watching  the 
sea  as  it  rolled  away  in  their  wake,  was  thinking  of 
his  wife  and  their  baby  Arthur. 

"How  happy  we'd  all  be,"  he  said  softly,  to  himself, 
"if  I  could  walk  in  on  them  now  —  God  bless  them 
both !" 

He  looked,  smiling,  toward  the  hazy  shore  lines  of 
the  Old  North  Province.  But  he  was  a  hundred  miles 
too  far  away  to  see  the  pillar  of  smoke  and  fire  that 
writhed  angrily  above  the  little  town  of  New  Bern. 


51 


Wallannah 


CHAPTER  V 

Some  Further  Tricks  of  Fate 

HE  morning  of  the  following  day  dawned 
bright  and  clear.  The  road  that  led  from 
New  Bern  to  the  Pamlico  shores  stretched 
broad  and  level  beneath  its  vista  of  towering 
interbranching  cypress  trees,  its  white  length  touched 
here  and  there  by  a  gleam  of  ruddy  gold  as  the  sunlight 
pierced  the  leafy  maze  above  and  played  upon  the 
sands  of  the  travelled  way. 

The  sun  had  climbed  but  an  hour  high  when 
'Squire  Cantwell,  on  a  chestnut  mare  of  Eastern 
breeding,  rode  slowly  up  the  highway  toward  the  old 
town.  Where  he  had  been  at  such  an  early  hour  did 
not  appear,  nor  did  it  in  any  way  affect  the  things 
which  happened  afterward.  What  played  a  part, 
however,  in  the  forming  of  the  great  web  which  was 
of  the  'Squire's  spinning,  was  the  point  toward  which 
his  mettled  steed  was  now  bearing  him ;  for  that  point 
was  the  house  of  McFaddin,  who,  a  few  days  before,  a 
sailor  on  the  Wasp,  had  left  his  Majesty's  service  to 
enter  that  of  Cantwell.  It  was  this  man's  house  which 
now  sheltered  the  child  that  Sequa  had  tried  to  carry 
to  Cantwell.  This  explains  why  the  'Squire  was 
making  his  way  toward  the  sailor's  home.  It  also  makes 
clear   the   presence   of   McFaddin   himself,   trudging 

52 


Some  Further  Tricks  of  Fate 

along  the  road  beside  the  rider's  stirrup.  The  two 
men  were  tallying;  and  quiet  though  the  roadway 
was,  Cantwell  had  to  bend  often  over  his  saddle- 
bow to  catch  the  utterances  of  the  over-cautious 
sailor. 

As  they  neared  a  little  log-cabin  that  stood  a  short 
way  from  the  roadside,  Cantwell  leaned  again  toward 
his  fellow-traveller:  "And  so  you  have  the  child?"  he 
asked  —  although  he  knew  as  well  as  did  the  man 
himself. 

The  sailor  raised  his  black  eyes  to  Cantwell's  face. 
"Yes,  yer  honor,"  he  answered,  smiling,  as  he  shifted 
his  tobacco  in  his  cheek. 

"Where?" 

"At  the  house  with  the  old  woman." 

"Boy  or  girl?" 

"Boy,  yer  honor." 

"Describe  him  to  me." 

"He's  all  rig'lar  an'  ship-shape,  yer  honor;  'most 
too  much  sail  fer  the  ballast,  maybe ;  but  more  'n  that 
I  don't  see  nothin'  pertic'lar.  He  jes'  cries,  that's  all. 
He'd  drownd  the  bo's'n's  whistle  in  a  sou'west  gale. 
'Pears  old  enough  to  talk  ;  but  we  can't  git  nothin'  out'n 
him  but  'Mama!    Want  mama!'  an'  sich  stuff." 

"What  did  the  squaw  say  about  him?" 

"Did  n't  wait  to  say  nothin'.  When  she  saw  me 
overhaulin'  her  she  drapped  the  baby,  blanket  an'  all, 
an'  steered  fer  the  woods." 

"You  've  done  well ;  but  I'm  in  doubt  yet :  I  must 
see  the  child,  McFaddin." 

"Easy  'nough,  yer  honor.  There's  my  cabin,  a  ship's 
length  up  the  road;   an'  there's  the  old  'oman  lookin' 

53 


Wallannah 

out  o'  the  winder.  Jes'  heave  me  yer  bowline  an'  I'll 
make  fast  to  a  tree  while  ye  git  down." 

Reaching  the  cabin  and  fastening  the  horse, 
Cantwell,  dismounting,  followed  McFaddin  into  his 
humble  abode. 

"Hi,  Peggy!"  thundered  the  sailor;  "here's  the 
'Squire  come  to  see  the  Httle  un'." 

McFaddin's  wife,  stout,  brawny  and  eunburned, 
held  out  a  calloused  hand  to  Cantwell.  As  he  spoke 
his  graceful  words  of  greeting  his  keen  eyes  saw  that 
the  woman's  face  was  a  good  one,  strong  and  kind  and 
motherly.  He  asked  to  see  the  child ;  and  the  sailor's 
wife  led  him  to  the  bed-room,  where  the  baby  lay 
sleeping  on  a  couch,  by  his  open  hand  a  wooden  spoon, 
his  plaything  in  his  waking  hours.  The  'Squire  bent 
down  and  studied  the  little  round  face.  Then  he  shook 
his  head  and  murmured  something  under  his  breath. 

"Know  him,  sir?"  asked  the  foster-mother. 

"No,  Peggy;  but  I  think  he's  the  child  that  some 
of  my  friends  are  looking  for.  Keep  him  here  until  I 
find  out.  In  the  meantime,  you  must  have  something 
for  the  expense  of  taking  care  of  him.  I  don't  know 
that  I'll  ever  get  it  back;  but  you  know,  Peggy,  we 
must  be  kind  to  the  unfortunate  if  we  hope  to  get  on 
in  the  world." 

"That's  so,  yer  honor ;  an'  for  my  part,  I  think  this 
here's  a  case  in  p'int.  A  poor  innercent  thing,  stole 
from  his  nat'ral  mother  by  a  low-down  Injun  squaw 
as  tried  to  make  a  dirty  papoose  of  'im.  I  hates  'em, 
sir  —  them  Injuns.  I  hates  'em  'cause  they  're  red ; 
an'  I  hates  'em  'cause  they  grease  their  ha'r  —  hates 
'em  fer  nigh  onto  ev'rythin'.     But  as  you  say,  yer 

54 


Some  Further  Tricks  of  Fate 

honor,  bein'  we  're  poor,  it  would  go  sorter  hard  with 
us  to  care  fer  the  Httle  thing  fer  somebody  as  is  better 
placed  than  us;  an'  all  fer  nothin',  too.  Hows'ever, 
I'd  V  done  it,  pay  or  no  pay." 

"Spoken  like  a  Christian  woman,  Peggy." 
The     'Squire     smiled     upon     her     with     benign 
complacency. 

"Nothing  is  lost  by  good  actions.  Bread  cast 
upon  the  waters  will  return  again,  you  know.  Now, 
my  good  woman,  here  is  some  money.  When  it's 
gone,  call  upon  me  for  more.  But,  hark  you,  Peggy, 
and  you,  too,  McFaddin,  keep  all  this  business  to 
yourselves ;  and,  above  all,  never  mention  my  name  in 
connection  with  it.  I  do  not  care  to  become  a  subject 
of  common  talk." 

"No  more  do  I,  yer  honor,"  protested  Peggy,  her 
face  reddening  under  its  coat  of  tan.  "But  when  the 
neighbors  comes  in  — " 

"They  must  n't  come  in,  Peggy  —  at  least,  not  yet. 
I  have  my  reasons,  which  I  cannot  tell  you  now.  So, 
for  the  present,  not  a  word  of  it,  or  — " 

"You  can  depend  on  us,  yer  honor,"  McFaddin 
interrupted.    "Peggy's  all  right." 

"But — "  started  Peggy,  looking  from  one  man  to 
the  other. 

"But  me  no  buts,  old  'oman.  You  know  yer  all 
right,  'specially  when  I  says  it.    Tell  the  'Squire  so." 

"Of  course,  I  — " 

"That'll  do.    I  knowed  you'd  say  so,  Peggy." 

Cantwell  watched  them  closely.  Then,  moving  to 
the  door,  he  said,  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction,  "We  're 
agreed  now ;  I  will  come  again  to-morrow," 

55 


Wallannah 

McFadclin  followed  him  to  the  roadside.  Cantwell 
uttered  some  trifling  jest,  and  the  two  men  parted  with 
laughter,  the  'Squire  turning  his  horse's  head  toward 
New  Bern. 

True  to  his  word,  Cantwell  returned  at  noon  of  the 
next  day.  Seated  upon  a  log  out  of  ear-shot  of  the 
cabin,  he  and  AIcFaddin  talked  for  an  hour;  but  the 
look  upon  the  sailor's  face  betrayed  dissatisfaction, 
and  the  rigid  set  of  the  'Squire's  jaw  showed,  in  turn, 
the  stubbornness  of  his  determination. 

IMcFaddin  was  speaking.  "I  don't  like  it  —  with 
all  respeck  to  yer  honor.  Ef  so  be  as  you  wants  me  to 
board  a  Frencher,  or,  fer  that  matter,  a  Britisher  —  fer 
it's  all  the  same  to  me  ef  the  shiners  is  there  —  Fm 
squar'  on  hand.  That's  fightin'  'g'inst  men.  But 
babies  —  that's  another  kind  o'  game." 

"But  the  child's  in  my  way,  AIcFaddin." 

"That  ain't  no  concern  o'  mine.  Ef  it's  the  baby 
o'  that  gal  up  the  river,  she's  give  it  up  'fore  now. 
Her  brother's  gone  back,  and  that's  goin'  to  be  the  last 
of  it.  Let  the  old  woman  keep  him.  He'll  be  a  kind 
o'  comfort-like,_  when  Fm  a-cruisin'," 

"Too  many  prying  eyes  and  busy  tongues  around 
us,  IMcFaddin,"  protested  Cantwell.  Then,  with 
ill-disguised  impatience,  "but  manage  the  details  your 
own  way.  Lose  the  brat,  or  send  him  off  so  far  he'll 
never  come  back.  Remember,  work  this  right  and  you 
ship  as  mate  when  the  Leopard  sails  again." 

"Aye,  yer  honor;  and  thanky.  Fll  do  my  best  to 
deserve  yer  compliment.  But  this  here  bus'ness  — 
well,  give  me  time.     Fll  fix  it  if  I  can." 

"I  prefer  to  be  served  promptly.    Take  your  time, 

56 


Some  Further  Tricks  of  Fate 

but  be  sparing  of  it.  Now,  let's  go  in  and  try  your 
wife's  persimmon  beer.  By  the  way,  do  you  keep  your 
secrets  from  her?" 

"When  I  can.  Peggy's  mighty  peart  at  findin' 
things  out;  but  we've  got  her  guessin'  now.  Fearin' 
accidents,  I  won't  tell  her,  neither.  But  Peggy's  all 
right." 

Mrs.  McFaddin,  her  face  a  little  flushed,  met  them 
at  the  door. 

"Bring  out  yer  home-made  beer,  Peggy,  dear?" 
said  the  sailor.  "The  'Squire  wants  to  see  the  color 
of  it." 

She  did  as  she  was  bidden,  and  the  jug  and  the 
glasses  made  merry  music  for  several  minutes;  then 
the  'Squire,  taking  some  spices  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  placed  a  pinch  in  his  mouth.  "Well,  Peggy, 
may  I  see  the  two-year-old?" 

"Certain,  sir,"  was  the  answer,  as  the  old  woman 
led  the  way  into  the  bed-room.  "But  he's  sick,  yer 
honor ;  got  a  fever,  I'm  afeerd.  No  wonder,  neither ; 
don't  see  why  he  didn't  die,  trudged  about  the  country 
a-steamin'  in  that  'ere  blanket  fer  I  don't  know  how 
many  days,  an'  nothin'  to  eat  but  Injun  swill.  But, 
hush  ye  !    He's  sleepin'  now." 

The  Good  Samaritan,  bending  over  the  luckless 
wayfarer  on  the  road  that  led  to  Jericho,  could  not  have 
looked  with  kindlier  eyes  upon  the  stranger  whom  he 
befriended  than  did  'Squire  Cantwell,  the  pious  justice 
of  New  Bern,  upon  the  little  child  on  Peggy's  bed. 
Stooping  down,  he  felt  the  baby's  pulse. 

"Why  yes,  Peggy;  the  child  has  a  burning  fever. 
We  must  stop  that.    I'll  ride  down  this  afternoon  with 

57 


Wallannah 

some  powders  for  him.  Poor  little  fellow!  I  wish  I 
had  the  medicine  now." 

His  voice  seemed  to  betray  great  concern,  and  he 
hurried  away  without  stopping  for  an  exchange  of 
adieus. 

The  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs  had  hardly  died  in 
the  distance  when  Peggy  turned  abruptly  to  her 
husband. 

"Bob,"  she  asked,  sharply,  "whose  child  is  this  ?" 

"Blast  my  peepers  ef  I  can  guess.  Peg." 

"Whose  do  you  think  ?" 

"I  don't  think.    I've  gi'n  it  up." 

"Oh!  Bob  McFaddin.  Can't  you  tell  nothin'  to 
yer  wife?  But  Til  call  in  Poll  Johnson;  it'll  take 
more'n  me  to  watch  this  'ere  baby." 

"Call  nobody.    You  told  the  'Squire  you  wouldn't." 

"There's  where  yer  wrong.  You  promised,  not 
me." 

"Didn't  you  say,  'Of  course,'  when  we  squeezed  you 
up  in  a  corner?  Certain  you  did,  an'  you've  got  to 
stick  to  it  —  stick  to  it  like  a  man,  ef  you  know  what 
that  means." 

"Ef  Pve  got  to  keep  it  from  other  folks,  I  won't 
have  it  kept  from  me.  Tell  me  the  hull  thing,  or  FU 
blow." 

"Blow  an'  be  da  —  well,  jest  blow.  I  told  you  all 
I  know  about  the  thing." 

"But  I  heerd  you  talkin',  Bob." 

"The  devil  an'  Tom  Walker !    What  did  you  hear  ?" 

"I  didn't  hear  nothin'  'bout  no  Tom  Walker ;  but  as 
to  the  other  feller  —  I  come  pretty  close  to  seein'  him 
and  hearin'  'im,  too." 

58 


Some  Further  Tricks  of  Fate 

"Now,  be  sens'ble,  old  woman ;  what  did  you 
hear?" 

"You  know  what  he  said  about  pryin'  eyes  an'  busy 
tongues  ?" 

"Did  you  hear  that  ?" 

"Never  mind,  Bobby.  An'  yer  goin'  to  be  mate  on 
the  Leopard?" 

"Blast  it !  you  heard  the  hull  thing." 

"An'  yer  goin'  to  lose  the  youngster,  be  you?" 

"Oh!  say—" 

"Or  send  him  clean  away,  eh?" 

"Oh!   the thunder!  I  mean.     Come,  I'll  shut 

yer  mouth  by  givin'  you  the  hull  story." 

Thus  did  Peggy  learn  the  'Squire's  plot  against  the 
child  which  she  had  already  learned  to  love.  For 
several  hours  afterward  her  eyes  gleamed  ominously, 
and  she  muttered  strange  things  to  herself  as  she 
worked  about  the  house. 

When  the  'Squire  came  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  Peggy,  radiant  with  smiles,  met  him  at  the 
door. 

Cantwell  greeted  her  cheerily.  "My  good  woman, 
how  fresh  and  young  you  look !  How  is  the  little  boy  ? 
Still  feverish  ?  Too  bad,  too  bad.  Well,  we  must  cure 
him  for  the  sake  of  his  mother,  whoever  she  may  be. 
Here  are  the  powders.  Start  them  about  bedtime. 
One  will  be  enough  to-night;  give  the  rest  at  hourly 
intervals  to-morrow." 

Peggy  followed  the  instructions  to  the  letter;  but 
when  the  following  day  had  nearly  passed  the  child 
was  still  very  ill.  At  sunset  of  this  second  day  the 
'Squire  came  again. 

59 


*  Wallannah 

"I  begin  to  feel  interested  in  the  little  fellow,"  he 
said,  by  way  of  introduction.  "I  think  he  is  some 
better;  but  he  is  threatened  with  tetanus  —  lockjaw, 
you  know.  There,  don't  wake  him,  but  give  him 
another  powder  when  he  wakes  from  his  nap." 

"The  powders  is  gone,"  Peggy  responded;  "used 
the  last  one  two  hours  ago." 

"True ;  I  forgot.  Let's  see ;  I  think  I've  got  some 
more  in  my  pocket ;  if  —  I  —  have  n't  —  ah !  yes  here 
is  another  dose.    Give  him  that." 

As  he  handed  the  blue  paper  to  Peggy,  the  watchful 
woman  saw  that  the  'Sauire's  hand  trembled,  and  that 
his  eyes  avoided  hers. 

An  hour  later  the  child  awoke,  moaning  piteously. 
Peggy  gave  him  a  drink  of  water.  Then  she  took  the 
paper  of  powder  and  crossing  to  the  window  stood 
looking  reflectively  down  the  road.  "Bob,"  she  said,  at 
last.  "Ef  the  gal  up  the  river's  this  child's  mother, 
who's  his  daddy?" 

"The  'Squire  knows ;  it's  out  o'  my  jurydiction." 

"What'll  you  bet  'tain't  the  'Squire  hisself  ?" 

McFaddin  stood  up  with  a  jerk;  a  sudden  light 
came  into  his  eyes.  "Peggy,"  he  said,  in  an  awed 
whisper,  "I'll  be  durned  ef  I  don't  think  yer  right." 

Peggy  was  silent  a  moment,  looking  down  at  the 
blue-wrapped  medicine. 

"Bob,"  she  said,  finally,  "The  'Squire  give  me  this 
'ere  powder  for  the  baby.  I  ain't  goin'  to  try  it  on 
him." 

"Why  not?    Didn't  the  others  go  all  right?" 

"Yes,  but  this  is  diff'rent." 

"Who'll  you  try  it  on?  Not  on  me,  ef  I  knows 
myself."  60 


Some  Further  Tricks  of  Fate 

"Take  it  out  and  give  it  to  Bowzer,  that  nasty  dog 


o'  vour'n." 


Bob,  pulling  nervously  at  his  black  side-whiskers, 
took  the  paper  gingerly  in  his  fingers  and  went  out  of 
the  kitchen  door.  It  was  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
before  he  returned;  and  when  he  entered  the  room 
his  face  was  grey  with  horror. 

"Ef  there's  a  God  in  heaven,"  the  sailor  blurted 
out,  "he  ought  to  take  that  'ere  'Squire  by  the  neck 
an'  beat  'im  till  he's  dead." 

"Did  yer  dog  eat  the  powder?"  asked  Peggy, 
breathlessly. 

"Did  he?    Well,  I  jes' reckon." 

"What  did  it  do?" 

McFaddin  raised  his  eyes.  "What  did  it  do! 
What  did  it  do!"  he  shrieked.  "It  knocked  Bowzer  so 
stiff  —  oh !  my  Lord  ;  I  never  — " 

"But  what  did  it  do?    Is  Bowzer  dead?" 

"Dead?    Yes,  dead  and  gone  to  —  no,  jes'  dead." 

The  couple  sat  for  a  long  time  in  silence;  then 
Peggy  came  to  the  fore  with  a  masterpiece  of 
ingenuity. 

When  the  good  'Squire  came  to  the  McFaddin's 
house  at  sundown  the  next  day,  Bob,  with  solemn 
demeanor,  met  him  and  led  the  way  to  the  bed-room. 
Peggy,  her  face  buried  in  her  handkerchief,  sat  beside 
something  that,  long  and  box-shaped,  lay  across  a  chair 
and  was  covered  with  a  spotless  sheet.  The  'Squire 
gave  a  nervous  start,  and  spoke  with  a  great  effort. 

"I  hope  the  child  is  better,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  strange  even  to  himself.  Peggy  looked  up 
into  his  face.    "He  is  dead,"  she  said,  simply.    Cantwell 

6i 


Wallannah 

bowed  his  head.  "I  am  shocked,"  he  said,  slowly.  "Do 
you  really  mean  dead?" 

"Dead   as   the    dev as    a   herrin',"   broke    in 

McFaddin,  with  a  queer  quaver  in  his  voice. 

"When  and  how?"  asked  the  'Squire,  his 
self-possession  returning. 

"As  to  when,"  answered  Peggy,  fixing  her  eyes 
upon  his  face,  "he  died  the  minute  he  took  yer  powders ; 
as  to  how" —  she  shrugged  her  broad  shoulders  — "you 
said  it  was  the  lockyjaw." 

"Just  as  I  feared,"  said  Cantwell,  with  a  look  of 
supreme  resignation.  "Tetanus  is  a  terrible  malady. 
What  have  you  done  with  the  —  with  the  body  ?" 

"I've  jacked  up  a  rough  coffin,"  answered  the  sailor. 
"Couldn't  keep  him  no  longer;  he  outsmelt  anythin' 
I  ever  run  ag'in'." 

"If  you  've  made  the  grave,"  gently  suggested  the 
'Squire,  "we  might  bury  him  now." 

"Got  it  all  fixed,  'Squire.  Reckon  you  could  read  a 
few  lines  o'  prayers,  to  make  a  kinder  decent  send-off  ? 
I—" 

McFaddin  was  seized  with  a  violent  fit  of  coughing, 
but  Cantwell  nodded  his  assent,  and  they  filed  out  into 
the  yard  and  stood  beneath  a  great  tulip  tree.  There, 
silently,  devoutly,  as  twilight  deepened  into  night, 
'Squire  Cantwell  read  three  pages  of  the  solemn  liturgy 
of  the  Church  of  England ;  and  they  committed  Bowzer 
to  his  grave. 

While  this  was  happening,  Peggy's  white  cat  and 
the  baby  that  Sequa  had  left  in  the  road  were 
slumbering  quietly  on  a  pile  of  blankets  beneath  the 
kitchen  table;    and,  lest  the  child  should  cry  at  an 

62 


Am)  they  committed  Bowzkk  to  his  grave. 


Some  Further  Tricks  of  Fate 

inopportune  moment,  his  silence  had  been  assured  by  a 
hberal  dose  of  sleeping-potion.  Cantwell,  when  he  did 
learn  the  truth  —  but  that  was  long  years  afterward ! 

In  the  present  day  the  things  which  happened  in 
and  around  New  Bern  in  the  year  of  grace  1754  could 
not  have  occurred  as  they  did.  Within  a  week  Sequa 
had  stolen  Mary  Ross's  child,  the  Reverend  James  Noel 
had  left  for  England  with  but  an  hour's  warning,  the 
Maynard  house,  with  its  infant  occupant,  had  been  a 
prey  to  the  flames,  and  Cantwell  had,  to  his  own  mind 
at  least,  satisfactorily  ridded  himself  and  the  rest  of 
the  world  of  the  child  which  Mary  Ross  had  borne  to 
him.  In  the  matter-of-fact  days  of  the  present  the 
scarcity  of  Indian  abductresses,  the  service  of  the 
transcontinental  cables,  the  deluging  powers  of  a 
battery  of  fire  engines,  and  the  intolerable  officiousness 
of  the  coroner,  the  police,  and  the  press  would  have 
stifled  in  embryo  the  plans  which  for  twenty-two  years 
kept  the  people  of  New  Bern  in  a  mist  of  perplexity. 

Allowance  must  be  made,  of  course,  for  the 
workings  of  Providence,  which,  being  unsusceptible  to 
improvement  or  patented  evolutions,  are  about  the 
same  now  as  then.  Providence  played  a  leading  part  in 
the  chain  of  events  which  began  with  Cantwell's  birth 
and  ended  with  his  death.  It  was  Providence  which 
made  Sequa  mix  matters  most  inexplicably;  and  the 
same  power  brought  about  the  death  of  Bowzer  and 
kept  alive  the  babe  in  McFaddin's  cabin.  The  rest  of 
it  was  done  by  human  deeds,  both  good  and  evil,  which 
may  or  may  not  have  been  of  free  moral  agency  —  who 
can  say? 

During  the  week  which  followed  the  theft  of  Mary 

63 


Wallannah 

Ross's  child  the  search  for  Sequa  had  been  continued 
with  untiring  energy.  Mrs.  Noel  had  opened  her  house 
to  Mary  and  the  boy  John,  and,  for  the  time,  the  cabin 
in  the  forest  was  deserted.  But  the  efforts  of  Tetah, 
the  chieftain,  were  of  no  avail;  and  if  he,  crafty  and 
powerful  as  he  was,  failed  to  find  the  girl,  who  could 
do  more  ?  True,  'Squire  Cantwell,  in  a  long  and  kindly 
letter,  had  promised  active  aid ;  but,  with  all  that,  the 
justice  admitted  that  he  had  never  seen  nor  heard  of 
Sequa.  Which  admission  would  have  seemed  strange 
to  Tetah  had  he  known  it;  but  Tetah's  belles  lettres 
were  scratches  on  rocks,  and  snakes  carved  on  tree 
trunks,  and  he  never  read  Cantwell's  missive. 

Still,  in  a  quiet  way,  the  search  had  gone  on.  John, 
seeking  a  clue  of  his  sister's  recreant  husband,  had 
journeyed  to  New  Bern,  there  to  make  careful  inquiry 
for  his  brother-in-law,  and  thus  trace  the  trail  of  the 
serpent  which  might  lead  to  Sequa.  But  the  boy 
learned  nothing  there.  Indeed,  one  man,  a  sailor  with 
jet-black  eyes  and  bushy  side-whiskers,  had  told  him 
that  no  such  man  as  Matthews  had  ever  lived  in  New 
Bern,  or,  to  his  knowledge,  anywhere  else  in  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  province.  So  the  boy, 
returning  tired  and  discouraged,  announced  that  he 
had  abandoned  the  search.  Alary,  too,  had  all  but  lost 
her  upholding  hope.  Those  whom  she  told  the  story 
of  her  baby's  disappearance  shrugged  their  shoulders 
and  straightway  regaled  her  with  harrowing  tales  of 
like  Indian  outrages.  One  old  Scotch  woman,  with 
more  candor  than  consideration,  made  the  avowal  that 
the  Cherokees  and  the  Cotechneys  held  their  great 
ceremonial    dances    in    September,    and,    during    the 

64 


Some  Further  Tricks  of  Fate 

ensuing  orgies,  ate  nothing  but  the  flesh  of  white 
infants.  Mary,  accepting  this  as  of  gospel  truth, 
returned  home  and  wept  bitterly  throughout  the  night. 

Had  the  widow  Ross  been  living,  her  daughter 
might  have  found  comfort  in  her  own  home ;  but  she, 
poor  woman,  had  died  soon  after  Matthews  had  left 
Mary  in  abandonment.  As  it  was,  all  that  the  girl 
could  do  was  to  look  to  the  minister's  wife  for 
sympathy.  Nor  did  she  go  awrong  in  doing  this,  for 
Mrs.  Noel,  with  kindliness  immeasurable,  kept  open 
for  her  the  gates  of  hope.  Little  wonder  was  it  that 
between  the  two  women  was  forged  a  chain  of 
friendship  that  made  their  ways  as  one,  and  seemed  to 
point  them  to  the  same  goal. 

When  the  day  came  which  marked  the  close  of  the 
first  week  of  her  baby's  absence,  Mary,  who  had  spent 
the  night  at  the  cabin  in  the  woods,  reached  Neusioc  at 
nine  in  the  morning.  There  she  found  the  minister's 
wife  lying  in  bed  with  a  severe  cold.  So  Mary 
volunteered  the  management  of  the  house  for  the  day. 
Playfully  decking  herself  with  cap  and  apron  of  snowy 
linen,  the  comely  girl,  already  attired  in  a  gown  of 
grey,  looked  like  the  saintly  nurses  that  Mrs.  Noel  had 
once  seen  in  the  field  camps  of  her  father's  army. 

At  the  hour  of  noon  Mary  sat  by  the  window  in 
Mrs.  Noel's  room  with  the  blue-eyed  Alice,  eight 
months  old  that  very  day,  lying  across  her  lap  and 
cooing  at  the  ceiling  above. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  rapid  hoof-beats  sounded 
from  the  street.  Mary  arose,  and,  laying  the  baby 
upon  the  bed  beside  its  mother,  hurried  to  the  door. 
She  returned  with  a  letter  in  her  hand.    "By  a  mounted 

65 


Wallannah 

messenger,"  she  said,  handing  the  missive  to  Mrs. 
Noel.    "It  requires  no  answer,  he  said," 

Mrs.  Noel  looked  puzzled.  "I  expected  a  letter 
from  Mrs.  Maynard  explaining  why  she  failed  to  send 
a  boat  for  me  to  go  to  New  Bern  Monday;  but  this 
is  in  a  man's  handwriting."  After  much  study,  she 
overcame  her  woman's  habit  of  guessing  at  the  outside 
of  an  envelope,  and  ruthlessly  tore  it  open.  "From 
Mr.  Cantv/ell,"  she  exclaimed,  with  some  surprise.  "I 
wonder  — "  Then  relapsing  into  silence,  she  read  the 
letter  with  eyes  that  told  of  ill  tidings. 

"Awful!  Awful!"  she  said,  as  she  sank  back  to 
her  pillows.  "Poor  Margaret  Maynard.  Read  it, 
Mary.  I've  never  heard  of  anything  more  terrible." 
Mary  took  the  letter.    It  read: 

"Respected  Madam  :  It  is  my  painful  Duty  to  acquaint 
you  with  the  sad  Calamity  that  will  prevent  my  Kinswoman, 
Mrs.  Maynard,  from  receiving  you,  for  the  present  at  least, 
as  a  Guest.  She  had  just  given  me  Instructions  to  send  a 
Boat  up  for  you,  anticipating  great  Pleasure  from  your  Visit, 
when  the  Calamity  came.  It  grieves  me  to  relate  the  horrible 
Tragedy ;  but  I  will  give  as  brief  a  Recital  as  I  can ;  knowing 
that  every  Word  will  be  a  Dagger  to  your  friendly  Heart. 

"My  respected  Kinswoman,  on  leaving  Home  to  visit  me 
for  the  Arrangement  of  important  Business,  confided  the  care 
of  her  son,  Arthur,  to  his  Nurse.  Tlie  boy  was  sleeping  under 
the  Influence  of  Narcotic  Powders — he  had  been  restless  for 
several  Days — and  she  charged  the  Nurse  to  keep  close  Watch 
in  her  Absence.  A  Chafing-Dish  was  in  the  Room  on  a  Side 
Table,  with  a  Lamp  burning  under  it,  to  keep  the  Baby's  Broth 
warm.  It  seems  that  the  Nurse  slipped  away  from  the  Child, 
and,  according  to  universal  Belief,  left  the  Lamp  in  such 
careless  Position  that  the  Child,  awaking  restlessly,  knocked  it 
down  and  so  set  the  House  on  fire. 

66 


Some  Further  Tricks  of  Fate 

"The  House  was  burned,  and  the  Child  in  it.  The  horrid 
Death  of  the  Boy  was  too  much  for  the  Fortitude  of  my  poor 
Cousin.  Her  Mind  has  given  away,  never,  it  is  feared,  to  be 
recovered.  Her  Friend,  Mrs.  DeVere,  is  taking  Care  of  her  at 
present.  The  Child  was  ahnost  entirely  consumed — only  a  few 
of  his  Bones  being  left. 

*'  'The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away ;  blessed 
be  the  Name  of  the  Lord.' 

"God  in  His  Providence  has  provided  for  the  Care  of  the 
Estate  during  the  Malady  of  our  Afflicted  Friend. 

"In  deep  Distress,  which  I  know  is  shared  in  your  Christian 
Heart,  I  am,  Madam,  Your  Obt.  Svt.  to  Command, 

"  J.  M.  Cantwell." 

Mary  laid  the  letter  aside,  her  eyes  moist  with 
tears.  "Why,  Mrs.  Noel!"  she  exclaimed;  "it's  the 
most  horrible  story  I've  ever  read.  God  knows,  it  is 
hard  enough  to  have  one's  baby  stolen ;  but  to  have 
him  burned  —  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it !" 

"Nor  I,"  said  Mrs.  Noel,  softly,  taking  little  Alice's 
hand  in  her  own. 

They  talked  until  dinner  time  of  Mrs.  Maynard 
and  the  news  in  Cantwell's  letter,  and  in  that  talk 
Mary  learned  much  of  the  romance  surrounding  the 
lives  of  the  lieutenant  and  his  wife. 

With  the  coming  of  the  twilight,  the  wind  shifted 
to  the  northeast,  and  a  cold,  drizzling  rain  beat  across 
the  lower  Neuse.  The  baby  was  sleeping  quietly  in 
her  cradle;  and  Mrs.  Noel  and  Mary,  in  the  candle 
light,  made  fanciful  predictions  of  the  child's  life 
throughout  the  coming  years.  In  fact,  none  of  these 
things  ever  came  true;  but  that  was  not  the  child's 
fault;   neither,  as  it  developed,  was  it  the  mother's. 

While  they  talked  thus  a  wild  gust  of  wind  howled 

67 


Wallannah 

about  the  house,  and,  in  seeming  answer,  came  the 
clangor  of  the  great  knocker  on  the  front  door.  The 
women  started  nervously.  The  summons  was  repeated, 
and  Mary,  taking  a  candle  with  her,  went  to  the  hall. 
Mrs.  Noel  heard  the  door  open,  and  felt  the  wind  as  it 
swept  through  the  house.  Then  came  Mary's  voice. 
"Who  are  you?"  it  said. 

"Me,"  was  the  guttural  response. 

"But  my  candle's  blown  out ;  I  can't  see  you.  Who 
are  you  ?" 

"Tetah ;   Peoperquinaiqua  bobbasheelah." 

The  minister's  wife  laughed  softly  to  herself,  for 
she  knew  how  little  the  answer  meant  to  Mary.  "Bring 
him  in,  Mary,"  she  called.    "It's  Tetah." 

With  unseemly  haste,  the  Indian,  wet  and  muddy, 
rushed  into  the  room.  "Peoperquinaiqua?"  he  asked, 
looking  quickly  about  the  room. 

"Gone  to  England,  Tetah." 

"Dove  Eyes  go  quick  —  quick  go!"  exclaimed  the 
chief. 

"Go,  Tetah?  Where?  Why?"  Mrs.  Noel  raised 
herself  on  one  arm,  and  looked  into  the  tawny  face 
with  something  like  fear  in  her  eyes. 

"Cotechney  steal  Neusioc  horse  —  Neusioc  catch  — 
take  scalp,"  and  he  held  up  one  grimy  finger. 
"Cotechneys  dig  hatchet — go  war  path.  Coreys  help — ■ 
no  like  Cherokees  (Cherokees  paleface  bobbasheelah). 
Neusioc  hear  —  send  Tetah.  Tetah  go  close  —  hide 
big  tree  —  Cotechneys  say  come  night  —  so  much." 
And  he  clapped  his  hand  twenty  times  to  count  two 
hundred.  "  Big  whoop  —  kill  —  take  scalp  —  burn 
Neusioc." 

68 


Some  Further  Tricks  of  Fate 

The  women  looked  at  one  another  with  terror  in 
their  faces.    Tetah  continued. 

'Teoperquinaiqua  good  to  Tetah  —  Tetah  tell 
squaw.  Tetah  warrior  —  stay  fight  —  Dove  Eyes  go 
quick  —  take  papoose."  Then,  without  another  word, 
he  folded  his  blanket  about  him  and  left  the  house. 

Fire  and  blood  reigned  in  Neusioc  that  night,  the 
one  lighting  the  clouds  for  miles  around,  the  other 
dying  the  sparkling  waters  that  crept  slowly  down  to 
the  sound.  The  Neusiocs,  forewarned  by  their  chieftain 
Tetah,  repulsed  their  allied  enemies  and  drove  them 
back  to  the  forests.  Four  houses  were  burned ;  one 
was  the  village  parsonage.  And  that  attack  on  Neusioc 
was  but  the  foreshadowing  of  one  that  came  three 
years  later  and  swept  the  little  hamlet  from  the  face  of 
the  earth. 

Mrs.  Noel,  heeding  Tetah's  warning,  had  gone  with 
Mary  and  the  baby  Alice  to  the  home  in  the  forest. 
There  they  watched  in  the  sky  the  light  of  Neusioc's 
flames.  But  toward  daybreak,  the  minister's  wife, 
suffering  from  the  exposure  of  her  walk  through  the 
cold  driving  rain,  was  seized  with  a  violent  fit  of 
coughing.  She  tried  to  muffle  the  sound  by  holding  her 
handkerchief  to  her  lips.  As  she  did  so,  Mary  gave  a 
quick,  low  cry  and  hastened  to  the  bedside.  The 
handkerchief  was  dyed  a  deep  red.  This  was  but  the 
beginning  of  the  end ;  and  throughout  the  morning 
and  far  past  midday  Mary  watched  by  the  side  of  the 
sufferer.  But  nothing  that  she  did  could  relieve  the 
violent,  racking  cough ;  and  with  every  paroxysm  Mrs. 
Noel  gave  of  her  life-blood. 

At  last  the  hour  came  when  the  coughing  ceased. 

69 


Wallannah 

It  was  in  the  warm  afternoon  that  came  after  the  rain. 
Out  of  doors  the  sun  was  bright  and  the  forest  rang 
with  the  music  of  the  birds.  In  the  front  room  of  the 
log-house  Mary  sat  beside  the  bed,  holding  Alice  in 
her  arms.  Lying  against  her  pillows,  Mrs.  Noel,  her 
pallor  intensified  by  the  flush  upon  her  cheeks,  fixed  her 
soft  blue  eyes  upon  the  baby's  face.  As  Mary  watched 
her  she  could  not  refrain  from  thinking  of  what  it 
had  been  to  this  frail  woman  to  sacrifi.ce  the  comforts 
of  her  father's  house  in  Britain  for  the  cheerless  life 
of  a  Carolina  village.  Her  revery  was  interrupted  by 
the  faint  voice  of  the  minister's  wife. 

"I've  coughed  so  much,  Mary,"  whispered  the 
fair-haired  woman,  smiling  into  her  companion's  face, 
"that  I  am  very  tired  and  want  to  go  to  sleep."  Her 
eyelids  drooped  a  moment,  then  lifted  again.  "Tell 
James,"  she  continued,  with  a  wandering  slowness,  "to 
wake  me  when  he  comes."  Then,  to  the  laughing  baby, 
"Good  night,  little  girl ;  mother's  going  to  sleep.  Good 
night !"  And  Alice,  as  she  had  learned  to  do,  reached 
out  her  little  arms  and  laughed  with  childish  glee. 

The  sweet,  pure  face  turned  slightly  on  the  pillow, 
the  dark  lashes  shut  out  the  light  of  the  eyes  as  clouds 
passing  over  the  stars,  and  the  little  woman's  lips 
parted  in  a  weary  sigh. 

A  flash  of  blue  swept  past  the  window;  a 
white-throated  kingfisher  gleamed  in  the  sunlight.  Its 
hoarse  cry  echoed  through  the  pines  like  a  sorrowing 
wail.  Mary  saw  the  bird,  and  it  seemed  to  laugh.  _at 
the  face  upon  the  pillows. 


70 


A  Good  Man  Meets  His  Wife 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  Good  Man  Meets  His  Wife 

WEEK  after  Mrs.  Noel's  death  there  came 
to  Mary  Ross  news  concerning  Sequa.  For 
Jemmie  Dow,  a  youth  hving  in  Neusioc, 
came  one  night  to  the  cabin  in  the  woods 
and  told  of  a  rumor  which  placed  the  Indian  girl  in 
New  Bern.  Without  loss  of  time,  therefore,  Mary  and 
John,  leaving  little  Alice  Noel  with  Mrs.  Dow,  set  out 
at  daybreak  with  cart  and  horse  for  the  scene  of 
Sequa's  appearance. 

Reaching  New  Bern  late  in  the  afternoon  they 
stopped  at  an  inn  which  bore  a  glaring  sign-board, 
proclaiming  it  a  place  of  "Entertainment  for  Man  and 
Horse."  Across  the  way  from  this  hostelry  stood  a 
merchant's  store,  with  doors  and  window  sashes  of 
brilliant  yellow.  Between  the  two  lay  the  street, 
unpaved  and  level  as  a  bowling  alley. 

Entering  the  inn,  Mary's  first  move  was  to  enlist 
the  sympathies  of  the  landlord's  wife,  a  pleasant 
seeming  woman  with  much  in  her  face  to  tell  of 
goodness  of  soul.  To  her,  stranger  though  she  was, 
Mary  related  her  story  of  misfortune,  and,  at  its  close, 
asked,  naturally  enough,  "Where  can  I  go  for  aid? 
Who  can  help  me?" 

Then,  so  entangled  was  the  situation,  the  innkeeper's 

.      71 


Wallannah 

wife,  with  innocence  unmeasured,  scored  another  point 
for  iron-handed  circumstance.  "Why,  go  to  'Squire 
Cantwell,"  she  said,  with  great  convictioru  "Go  to 
him  by  all  means," 

Mary's  heart  gave  a  bound  of  hope,  remembering 
that  this  Cantwell,  in  his  letter  to  Mr.  Noel,  had  offered 
to  aid  untiringly  in  the  search. 

"Everybody,"  the  v/oman  continued,  rubbing  her 
hands  with  the  satisfaction  of  one  giving  sound  advice ; 
"everybody  goes  to  the  'Squire  when  nobody  else  can't 
help  'em.  He's  the  smartest  man  in  New  Bern,  an'  the 
best  man  in  the  world,  I  reckon.  To  see  'im  in  church, 
a-lookin'  so  reverent-like,  is  'most  as  good  as  a  sermon. 
Yes,  you  certainly  must  see  'Squire  Cantwell." 

Thus  it  was  that  Alary,  leaving  John  to  search  for 
Sequa,  bent  her  steps  to  the  home  of  John  Cantwell, 
friend  of  governors  and  revered  of  the  populace.  And 
her  heart  beat  high  with  hope,  for  she  pictured  the 
justice  as  a  man  with  heart  and  soul  of  purest 
gold. 

Leaving  the  inn,  she  crossed  the  street.  At  the 
door  of  the  yellow-fronted  shop  she  came  face  to  face 
with  a  portly  man  of  ecclesiastic  look.  She  shrank 
back  a  trifle,  then  bent  her  head  and  went  on  her  way 
toward  the  house  on  the  terraced  lawn.  But  she  had 
met  the  light,  shifting  eyes  of  a  man  whom  she  had 
seen  once  before,  in  the  better  days  gone  by ;  and  the 
thought  of  all  that  had  since  come  into  her  life  went 
like  iron  into  her  soul. 

Further  on  she  came  to  the  mansion  of  the 
Cantwells.  On  the  lawn  beneath  the  great  bay-windows 
stood  a  tiny  boy,  pulling  buds  from  a  rosebush  in  the 

72 


A  Good  Man  Meets  His  Wife 

garden.  By  his  side  was  a  nurse  girl,  holding  a  sleeping 
baby.  Entering  the  gate,  Mary  passed  the  girl  and  the 
children,  and  ascended  the  broad  steps  to  the  mansion's 
imposing  front  door.  Half  way  up  she  met  a  woman 
attired  in  rustling  silks  and  holding  her  head  as  befitted 
one  of  high  degree.  As  they  passed,  each  glanced 
quickly  at  the  other,  and  Mary  saw  that  the  look  on 
the  woman's  face  was  of  pride,  mingled  with  a  certain 
sweetness  which  gave  a  rare  charm  to  her  clear-cut 
features.  "Mrs.  Cantwell,"  she  thought,  as  she  paused 
before  the  door  and  looked  back  at  the  shapely  silk-clad 
figure.  And  she  knew  that  she  was  right,  for  the  boy 
left  the  roses  and  ran  across  the  grass  laughing  and 
calling,  "Mother,  let  me  go,  too." 

A  moment  later,  led  by  the  'Squire's  servant,  Mary 
entered  Cantwell's  study.  Her  eyes  caught  first  the 
glare  of  the  mottoes  and  scriptural  pictures  on  the  wall. 
Then  she  sought  the  face  of  John  Cantwell,  who  sat 
behind  his  desk.  A  quick  cry  came  to  her  lips;  and 
she  wavered  a  moment  as  she  stood.  Cantwell  half 
arose.  The  smile  of  welcome  froze  upon  his  lips ;  and 
within  his  eyes  was  a  gleam  of  fear. 

It  was  Mary  who  broke  upon  the  strained  silence. 

"You !"  she  cried,  her  voice  tense  with  feeling. 
"You !  —  and  so  we  meet  again." 

Cantwell  opened  his  lips  to  speak. 

Mary  stayed  him  with  a  quick  movement  of  her 
hand.  "Hear  me  first,"  she  said,  with  an  imperious 
toss  of  the  head.  "So  you  are  the  good  —  the  reverend 
—  the  esteemed  —  'Squire  Cantwell!  Look  up,  John 
Matthews,  and  tell  me,  in  the  presence  of  these  sacred 
things  upon  your  walls,  are  you  the  noble   'Squire 

73 


Wallannah 

Cantwell,  whose  virtues  are  the  talk  of  all  good 
people  ?" 

"Mary,"  gasped  the  'Squire,  "do  not  judge  me  yet; 
remember  how  the  Scriptures — " 

"Hypocrite !  Don't  quote  Scripture  to  me.  Quoting 
Scripture"  —  her  voice  was  bitter  with  sarcasm  —  "to 
me  —  your  deserted  wife!" 

Cantwell  straightened  up  with  something  like  a 
laugh.  "No;  not  wife,  Mary.  It's  bad  enough  as  it 
is ;  but  not  as  bad  as  that." 

"Not  your  wife!  Were  we  not  married  with  a 
license?  and  by  a  priest?" 

The  'Squire,  his  self-control  regained,  smiled  at  her 
vehemence. 

"If  you  examine,"  he  said,  dryly,  "you'll  find  that 
no  such  license  has  ever  been  registered ;  and,  as  for 
the  priest,  he  was  a  clever  fellow  of  no  particular 
profession,  whose  friendship  could  not  deny  me  the 
service.  It  was  his  first  and  only  performance  in 
canonicals." 

The  cool  impudence  of  this  villainous  confession 
staggered  Mary.  At  first  she  did  not  grasp  its 
meaning.  Then,  in  a  moment,  the  full  consciousness 
of  her  degradation  came  over  her.  Raising  her  hands 
to  her  face,  she  dropped  upon  the  sofa,  and  the  one 
word,  "Disgraced,"  came  to  Cantwell's  ears. 

He  saw  his  advantage.  "No,"  he  said,  gently,  "not 
unless  you  choose  to  have  it  so.  No  one  but  you  knows 
that  John  M.  Cantwell  and  John  Matthews  are  the 
same.    Why  tell  it?" 

It  was  a  master-stroke,  but  Mary  met  the  thrust 
with  a  firm  guard.  "Why  tell  it !"  she  exclaimed,  rising 

74 


A  Good  Man  Meets  His  Wife 

again  to  her  feet.  "Because  I  will  not  live  a  lie.  I  will 
tell  it  that  this  other  one,  she  whom  you  now  call  your 
wife,  may  look  to  her  license,  and  see  who  married  her." 
She  caught  her  breath,  and  her  eyes  flashed  with  her 
anger.  "And  more  than  this,  good  'Squire  Cantwell, 
I'll  tell  it  to  the  king's  councillor  and  to  the 
courts." 

Cantwell  bit  his  lip.  "Hold  on,  hold  on !"  he  said, 
with  a  sneer;  "this  is  no  play-house,  nor  are  we 
play-actors." 

Mary  gave  no  heed  to  his  words.  "And  I'll  find 
out  for  the  sake  of  my  boy  if  this  that  you  have  told 
me  is  true." 

Whether  from  subtle  policy  or  from  a  new-born 
admiration  for  the  strength  of  her  whom  he  had 
hitherto  thought  timid  to  the  point  of  weakness, 
Cantwell  altered  his  manner  and  his  tactics.  "Mary," 
he  said,  tenderly,  with  the  soft-toned  voice  of  the 
Tilatthews  of  old  times,  "I  am  not  so  great  a  villain  as 
I  represented  myself  a  moment  ago.  You  exasperated 
me  —  perhaps  beyond  prudence.  I  loved  you  from  the 
first  —  I  love  you  now."  He  saw  her  lips  open  as  for 
an  angry  retort.  "Wait,  wait,  for  God's  sake,  hear 
me !"  he  cried.  "When  I  first  met  you,  that  night  when 
I  came  sick  and  a  stranger  to  your  door,  I  was  already 
betrothed  to  the  woman  who  is  now  my  wife  —  the  one 
you  met  when  you  came  into  the  house.  I  did  not  love 
her ;  but  —  but  she  was  rich  and  I  was  poor.  I  make 
no  other  excuse ! 

"When,  recovering  from  the  delirium  of  my  illness, 
I  told  you  my  name  was  John  Matthews,  I  told  you 
the  truth,  but  not  the  whole  truth.    My  name  is  John 

75 


Wallannah 

Matthews  Cantwell.  I  kept  back  the  surname  because, 
looking  into  the  future,  I  knew  it  would  be  hard  to 
tear  myself  from  you ;  and  I  did  not  wish  to  give  my 
betrothed  a  clue  by  which  to  trace  me  out.  When  I 
came  back  to  town,  after  submitting  my  surveys  to 
Governor  Johnston,  I  called  upon  Miss  Creamly, 
determined  to  break  off  our  engagement.  Love  in  a 
cottage,  I  thought,  would  be  better  than  indifference 
with  wealth.  But  when  I  stood  beside  her,  with  all 
the  elegance  of  luxurious  life  about  me,  romance  —  I'm 
ashamed  to  confess  it  —  gave  way  to  a  meaner  feeling; 
and  I  renewed  my  false  vows. 

"Before  I  saw  you  again  the  bans  had  been 
published,  and  I  could  not  retract.  Had  I  done  so,  I 
should  have  lost  the  patronage  of  the  governor,  who 
had  been  my  warmest  advocate  with  Miss  Creamly. 
Without  the  governor  and  without  money,  I  felt  that  I 
would  be  a  burden  to  you.  You  were  miles  away,  in 
the  woods;  and  with  little  management  I  could  keep 
you  there.  As  Matthews  I  could  marry  you,  and 
afterward  be  united,  by  what  would  really  be  an  illegal 
ceremony,  to  Miss  Creamly. 

"There  was  only  one  man  in  the  world  to  whom  I 
could  confide  my  trouble,  and  he  was  the  one  who  acted 
as  the  priest.  This  man  said  that  my  plan  might  lead 
to  indictment  for  bigamy.  He  said  that  Miss  Creamly 
was  of  frail  constitution,  had  consumption,  and  could 
live  but  a  short  time ;  and  that,  by  marrying  her  first 
and  securing  you  with  the  deception  of  a  sham 
marriage,  I  would  soon  be  free  with  an  ample  fortune 
to  legalize  our  union  and  to  make  you  independent. 
The  plan  may  still  be  carried  out.    I  stopped  coming  to 

76 


A  Good  Man  Meets  His  Wife 

you  because  my  wife,  becoming  jealous,  had  spies  set 
uiDon  me. 

"Now,  Mary,  I  have  told  you  all  that  is  to  be  told. 
Can  you  not  forgive  me?"  He  crossed  to  where  she 
stood  and  tried  to  take  her  hand. 

She  drew  back  as  from  a  viper's  sting.  "Do  not 
touch  me,"  she  cried  hoarsely,  backing  quickly  away 
from  him.  "What  kind  of  man  are  you,  to  talk  of  love 
in  the  same  breath  with  crime?  Your  love  —  if  love 
you  call  it  —  is  as  poisonous  as  your  avarice.  Forgive 
you?  You  should  thank  God  that  I  do  not  kill  you! 
I  listened  to  you;  now  hear  me.  I  saw  your  oldest 
child  at  the  gate  as  I  came  in.  He  is  younger  than 
ours.  I  will  not  believe  that  our  marriage  came  after 
the  other;  nor  was  ours  the  illegal  one.  Your  face 
has  told  me  more  than  your  lips.  I  shall  learn  the 
truth  from  the  priest  himself." 

"You'll  never  find  him,"  said  Cantwell,  with  a  short 
laugh.    "He  has  left  the  country." 

"He  has  not.    I  saw  him  to-day." 

Cantwell  gave  a  violent  start. 

"Yes,  I  saw  him  an  hour  ago.  No  wonder  you  turn 
pale.  I'll  have  his  evidence  before  night,  unless  you 
confess  that  our  marriage  was  legal.  If  you  do  confess 
it,  I  promise  you  —  and  you  know  that  I  will  keep  my 
word  —  I  promise  you  never  to  disturb  you  unless  you 
force  me  to  it  in  defence  of  my  reputation.  This  I  will 
do  for  the  sake  of  the  innocent  woman  I  met  on  the 
steps.  She  may  want  you ;  I  do  not.  Now  tell  me,  am 
I  your  lawful  wife  ?" 

Cantwell  looked  sharply  into  her  face.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  after  a  moment,  "you  are. 

77 


>> 


Wallannah 

"Write  it." 

"But  —  " 

"Write  it!" 

The  'Squire  stammered  something  inaudible.  "I 
would  rather  —  " 

"Write  it !"  came  the  inexorable  command. 

"You  will  use  it  —  " 

"Only  in  self-defence  and  if  you  force  me  to  it!" 

Cantwell  went  to  his  desk  and  wrote  the  simple 
statement.  Mary  took  it,  read  it  through  and  slipped 
it  into  a  pocket  in  her  dress. 

"Now,  Mr.  Cantwell,"  she  said,  coldly,  "I  must  ask 
your  aid  in  another  matter.  My  little  boy,  John,  has 
been  stolen  by  an  Indian  woman.  Can  you  help  me  to 
find  him?" 

Cantwell  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "No,"  he  said, 
slowly  shaking  his  head,  "I'm  sorry,  Mary;  perhaps 
I  should  not  tell  you  so  abruptly,  but  the  boy  is 
dead." 

Mary  moved  a  step  toward  him.  "Dead !  How  do 
you  know  that  ? "  She  stetched  out  her  hands 
imploringly.     "Oh !  John,  do  not  deceive  me  in  this  !" 

"I  wish  that  it  might  be  untrue.  I  cannot  prove 
it;  but  still  I  cannot  doubt  it.  I  have  watched  over 
you  more  than  you  know.  I,  too,  searched  for  the 
Indian  woman,  and  I  found  her.  She  did  not  have  the 
child,  and  said  that  it  was  dead." 

Mary  sank  into  the  chair  by  the  window,  and  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

Cantwell  crossed  the  room,  and  stood  beside  her. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  gently,  "I  know  what  a  shock  it 
is  to  you.    I  feel  it  too  keenly  myself  not  to  know  how 

78 


A  Good  Man  Meets  His  Wife 

it  hurts  you.  Think  how  much  worse  it  might  be. 
Compare  your  case  —  our  case  —  with  that  of  poor 
Margaret  Maynard." 

Mary,  catching  her  breath  in  broken  sobs,  seemed 
not  to  hear  him. 

"Her  misfortune,"  continued  Cantwell,  "is  worse 
even  than  you  had  known.  Lieutenant  Maynard  is 
dead.  The  Wasp  went  down  off  Hatteras  and  not  a 
soul  reached  the  shore." 

Mary  started  to  her  feet  with  a  cry  of  horror. 
"Merciful  Heaven!"  she  cried,  "can  this  be  true?" 

Cantwell  bowed  his  head.  "Yes,"  he  said,  simply, 
"the  news  came  in  by  the  Leopard." 

The  Wasp  was  lost.  The  Rev.  James  Noel  had  been 
its  passenger.  Motherless,  fatherless,  the  baby  Alice 
could  claim  no  home  but  Mary's.  Filled  with  the 
thought  of  the  orphaned  child  she  started  toward  the 
door. 

Cantwell  stopped  her.  "Before  you  go,"  he  said, 
resting  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  "tell  me  of  our 
other  child." 

"What  other?" 

"Why,  the  youngest  —  the  little  girl." 

Mary  drew  in  her  breath  sharply.  Cantwell  did 
not  know  that  the  child  had  died  months  before. 

A  sudden  thought  flashed  into  her  mind.  "I  left 
her  at  Neusioc,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "I  —  I  must  go 
now.    Let  me  pass." 

"One  question  more:  Her  name  is  Mary?" 

"I  have  changed  it  to  Alice."  She  moved  toward 
the  door. 

"But  one  thing  more,"   said  Cantwell,   in  a  low 

79 


Wallannah 

voice,  as  his  hand  rested  on  the  knob.  "I  think  it  better 
that  John  Matthews  should  be  dead." 

"I  agree  with  you  —  hterally,"  answered  Mary. 

And  they  parted  in  the  hall. 

Cantwell  stood  at  the  window  and  watched  her  as 
she  crossed  to  the  inn.  Then,  playing  mechanically 
with  the  curtain  tassel,  he  looked  musingly  down  at 
the  flower-bed  in  front  of  the  house. 

"Literally !"  he  muttered,  slowly.  "What  the  devil 
did  she  mean  by  th^t !" 


80 


A  Bit  of  History 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  Bit  of  History 

[I^or  those  who  like  that  sort  of  thing. '^ 

ANTWELL'S  belief  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding,  the  Wasp  had  not 
foundered  off  Hatteras,  but,  Avith  battened 
hatches  and  bare  poles,  had  weathered  the 
gale  without  the  loss  of  sail  or  spar.  Crossing  the 
Atlantic,  turbulent  and  angry  with  the  storms  of  the 
equinox,  the  Wasp  finally  landed  at  Plymouth,  and 
Mr.  Noel  went  thence  by  stage  to  his  brother's  home. 
Within  a  month  Henry,  Lord  Durham,  had  gone  to  his 
fathers;  and  title  and  estate  fell  to  the  Carolina 
missionary.  But  close  upon  his  brother's  death,  came 
one  day  a  letter  from  far-away  New  Bern.  It  told  of 
the  raid  of  the  Cotcheneys  and  the  Coreys  and  of  the 
burning  of  Neusioc.  And  in  its  course  it  said,  "I 
grieve  to  say  that  Mrs.  Noel  and  the  baby  Alice  were 
not  spared,  the  parsonage  having  burned  to  the  very 
ground."  The  signature  at  the  letter's  end  was  "J-  ^^• 
Cantwell."  So,  many  years  passed  before  Lord 
Durham  returned  to  the  valley  of  the  Neuse. 

In  North  Carolina  events  moved  slowly  for  several 
years.  Arthur  Dobbs  took  the  reins  of  power  in 
November,  1754,  and  spent  something  over  ten  years 
in  disagreeing  with  his  council  and  with  the  legislature. 

81 


Wallannah 

During  this  period  the  people  began  to  fret  under 
the  strictures  of  the  government,  which  fretting 
caused  excessive  discomfort  to  the  harassed  old 
governor.  When  death  gave  this  royal  favorite  a  happy 
release  from  the  cares  of  state,  Lieutenant-Governor 
William  Tryon  qualified  as  Commander-in-chief  and 
Captain-General  of  the  Province  of  North  Carolina. 
This  was  title  enough  even  for  Tryon,  who  delighted 
in  swelling  out  his  chest  and  reflecting  upon  his  own 
greatness. 

This  Tryon  was  a  soldier  —  as  soldiers  sometimes 
go  —  and  his  idea  of  government  was  the  simple  one 
that  might  and  right  (differing,  as  is  seen,  in  but  one 
letter)  went  together  in  indissoluble  union.  When 
councillors  advised,  "Concihate,"  Tryon  would  bring 
forth  a  bombastic  proclamation  teeming  with  vague 
and  direful  threats.  When  wise  heads  said," Arbitrate," 
then  would  Tryon  strike  a  pose  and  thunder,  "Disperse, 
ye  rebels !"  and  another  proclamation  would  be 
forthcoming.  In  fact,  he  wrote  proclamations  as  some 
men  have  written  epigrams,  thinking  them  the  all  in  all 
of  his  mission  upon  earth. 

Having  dreamed  from  the  days  of  his  youth  of  the 
glory  of  arms,  and  having  learned  in  years  past  some 
little  of  the  ways  of  war.  Governor  William  proceeded 
to  make  a  plaything  of  the  royal  army  in  the  province. 
On  one  occasion,  when  Tryon  was  suffering  from  want 
of  amusement,  he  mustered  his  troops  and  marched 
them  across  the  province  from  seashore  to  mountains, 
in  a  time  of  perfect  peace,  for  the  purpose  of  marking  a 
boundary  line  to  be  respected  by  the  Cherokee  Indians. 
This  delightful  excursion  won  Tryon  great  glory  in 

82 


S- 


A  Bit  of  History 

his  own  estimation ;  but  the  honest  taxpayers,  venturing 
a  degree  of  free  thought,  conchided  that  a  second-rate 
surveying  corps,  eating  but  Httle  and  drinking  less, 
could  have  made  a  very  serviceable  boundary  line 
without  the  aid  of  a  ravenous  army,  with  men  and 
horses  whose  stomachs  knew  no  fill.  So  well  did  Tryon 
comport  himself  in  this  matter  that  the  Cherokees,  who 
possessed  an  admirable  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things, 
gave  to  Governor  William  the  name  of  "The  Great 
Wolf,"  which  was  an  unkind  defamation  of  a  very 
honest  sort  of  animal. 

In  general,  it  might  be  said  that  Tryon  possessed  "^i,^ 
every  quality  which  a  man  should  not  possess,  and  was  \i 
lacking  in  most  of  those  which  go  to  the  making  of  a 
praiseworthy  gentleman.  Humanity  to  him  was  but 
a  word  of  eight  letters,  that  might  mean  one  thing  or 
another.  His  freedom  from  religious  intolerance  was 
a  virtue  taking  equal  rank  with  a  savage's  disregard 
for  decent  clothing:  his  religious  principles,  like  the 
barbarian's  modesty,  being  greatly  in  the  negative. 

The  tidal  wave,  born  of  the  love  of  hberty,  which 
finally  swept  the  king's  minions  back  to  Britain,  gained 
much  of  its  force  in  this  sparsely  populated  province. 
The  commissioned  officers  of  the  crov/n,  and  the 
multitudinous  rank  and  file  of  petty  office-holders, 
cultivated  a  great  and  growing  greed  of  other  people's 
gold.  And  these  other  people,  already  overburdened 
with  taxation,  resented  the  extortions  from  their  very 
start. 

The  Stamp  Act,  which  inflamed  American  minds 
from  the  northernmost  province  to  its  furthest  sister 
in  the  South,  stirred  North  Carolina  to  the  heart.    The 

83 


Wallannah 

provincial  legislature  was  in  serene  and  peaceful  session 
when  advices  of  the  passage  of  this  act  came  from  the 
royal  Parliament.  The  excitement  was  intense;  and 
Tryon  made  terrific  haste  to  prorogue  the  legislature, 
after  a  session  of  but  fifteen  days,  that  the  people's 
representatives  might  not  raise  a  storm  which  should 
reach  the  throne  and  bring  the  king's  disfavor  upon 
his  beloved  self. 

Then  it  was  that  John  Ashe,  revered  of  all 
Carolinians,  said  to  Tryon  that  the  odious  Stamp  Act 
would  be  resisted  by  the  people  even  to  blood  and  to 
death.  And  Tryon  knew  Ashe  for  a  m.an  who  spoke 
advisedly. 

The  wily  governor,  seeing  clearly  that  the  breaking 
of  the  whirlwind  which  lay  within  the  cloud  that 
overhung  the  province  would  bring  about  his  official 
ruin,  kept  the  legislature  out  of  business  throughout 
the  life  of  the  Stamp  Act.  Fearing,  however,  that 
something  might  arise  to  bring  the  rays  of  indignation 
to  a  burning  focus,  Tryon  exerted  himself  to  win  the 
favor  of  the  people.  He  mingled  with  them,  and,  with 
surpassing  tact  and  hospitality,  played  the  host  at  many 
banquets.  But,  although  a  man's  heart  may  sometimes 
be  reached  through  his  stomach,  his  appetite  fails 
before  the  grasping  hand  of  the  tax-gatherer. 

Then  came  his  Tvlajesty's  sloop-of-war  Diligence, 
freighted  with  stamped  paper  for  use  (on  payment  of 
due  consideration)  by  the  disgusted  colonists.  Hardly 
had  the  vessel's  anchor  touched  the  bottom  of  the  Cape 
Fear  River  before  John  Ashe,  of  New  Hanover 
(helping  keep  good  his  prophecy  to  Tryon),  and 
Colonel  Waddell,  of  Brunswick,  placed  themselves  at 

84 


A  Bit  of  History 

the  head  of  a  band  of  patriots,  and  proceeded  to  give 
the  master  of  the  Diligence  the  greatest  fright  of  his 
Hfe.  After  the  trenibhng  sailor  had  sworn  to  land  no 
stamped  paper  on  Carolina's  soil,  the  patriots  marched 
to  the  governor's  palace  and  called  upon  Tryon  to  desist 
from  all  efforts  to  enforce  the  Stamp  Act.  Then  they 
demanded  James  Houston,  the  stamp  master  for  North 
Carolina.  But  James  kept  very  quiet,  and  made  no 
effort  to  meet  those  who  so  eagerly  sought  him.  The 
crowd  called  again,  and  more  loudly  than  before.  But 
Tryon  said,  "Gentlemen,  I  cannot  accede  to  such  a 
turbulent  demand ;  but  if  you  will  take  formal  action, 
and  do  so  and  so  and  thus  and  thus,  I  will  give  the 
matter  my  consideration." 

It  happened  that  the  people  wanted  the  stamp 
master,  not  the  governor's  consideration  —  which  was 
a  flimsy  thing  at  best.  So  they  called,  "Houston  !  Give 
us  Houston,  or  we'll  burn  your  palace  to  the  ground  1" 
And  Houston  was  produced  forthwith. 

It  is  highly  probable  that  the  stamp  master  looked 
upon  that  hour  as  his  last.  Whatever  his  thoughts,  he 
suffered  himself  to  be  led  to  the  public  market-house, 
where,  instead  of  being  hung,  he  was  sworn  by  a 
solemn  oath  to  perform  none  of  the  official  duties 
assigned  him.  Then,  set  free  and  wondering  how  he 
still  lived,  Houston  found  his  way  back  to  the  palace, 
where  he  and  Tryon  comforted  one  another  with 
caustic  observations  upon  people  who  aspired  to  human 
rights. 

After  this  throb  of  the  popular  pulse,  Tryon  made 
a  frantic  effort  to  persuade  the  people  of  the  province 
to  think  his  way.     He  doubtless  overlooked  the  fact 

85 


Wallannah 

that  he  was  paid  to  think  as  he  did,  and  that  the  people 
did  the  paying  without  having  the  privilege  of  choosing 
their  goods.  The  governor  implored  the  forbearance 
of  the  citizens,  and  begged  for  their  advice.  At  public 
meetings,  with  his  hand  over  his  heart,  he  bowed  and 
smiled  on  all  men,  believing  such  benignity  to  be  the 
most  masterful  of  flatteries.  It  seems  strange  that, 
playing  such  a  gracious  part,  his  Excellency  was 
meanwhile  planning  to  open  upon  these  verv  peoole 
the  vials  of  the  royal  wrath. 

Tryon's  conciliatory  labors  ended  abortively. 
Taking  advantage  of  an  outpouring  of  the  people  to 
witness  a  general  muster  of  the  militia  in  New  Hanover 
in  February  of  the  year  1766,  the  governor  prepared  a 
barbecue  which  was  to  be  such  a  barbecue  as  had  never 
before  been  given  beneath  American  skies.  The  most 
prodigious  ox  in  all  North  Carolina  was  cooked  and 
placed  upon  a  great  stout-legged  table.  To  wash  down 
the  beef  was  beer  in  many  barrels.  The  governor  was 
there,  with  bland  and  fatherly  smile;  the  multitude 
was  there,  with  some  curiosity  and  with  much  fixedness 
of  purpose;  the  feast,  also,  was  there  and  waiting; 
but  peace  and  harmony  were  afar  off. 

A  few  minutes  before  Tryon  remembered  a  pressing 
business  engagement  elsew4iere,  a  score  of  sturdy  men 
lifted  the  roasted  ox  from  the  table  and  threw  it  into 
the  river,  while  some  others  of  the  crowd  emptied  the 
beer  casks  upon  the  ground.  In  one  respect  the  feast 
met  Tryon's  expectations :  never  before  had  American 
skies  smiled  upon  such  a  barbecue.  This  episode  went 
to  show  that  Tryon's  cajolery  availed  him  little  while 
the  Stamp  Act  hung  dark  and  cloudlike  over  the  land. 

86 


A  Bit  of  History 

Arising  from  this  incident,  a  duel  of  fatal 
termination  was  fought  between  Alexander  Simpson, 
master  of  his  Majesty's  sloop-of-war  Vixen,  and 
Thomas  Whitechurst,  lieutenant  of  the  same  vessel. 
Simpson  openly  praised  the  exhibition  of  the 
self-respect  of  the  North'  Carolinians;  while 
Whitechurst  (a  relative,  by  the  way,  of  Lady  Tryon's) 
favored  the  governor.  Whether  the  captain's  skill  or 
his  espousal  of  a  just  cause  served  him  in  good  stead, 
he  was  the  victor  in  the  duel.  He  was  apprehended 
and  was  tried  before  Judge  Berry,  with  the  result  of 
full  acquittal.  This  was  displeasing  to  Tryon,  who  was 
fond  enough  of  the  law  when  its  verdicts  suited  his 
views,  but  who  launched  furious  proclamations  when 
the  courts  essayed  to  set  imprudent  precedents.  So 
the  governor  summoned  Judge  Berry  to  his  presence. 
The  interview  was  not  a  long  one;  but  the  poor 
justice  saw  such  menace  in  Tryon's  demeanor  that, 
leaving  the  palace,  he  ripped  himself  open  with  a 
penknife  and  suffered  a  horrible  death. 

Simpson  fled  from  the  colony,  assisted  by  William 
Maynard,  once  lieutenant  and  afterward  captain  of 
his  Majesty's  sloop-of-war  Wasp.  Maynard,  having 
resigned  his  commission  in  the  royal  navy,  had  returned 
to  North  Carolina,  allying  himself  with  the  cause  of  the 
Regulators,  and  having  a  price  set  upon  his  head  by 
the  governor 

The  Stamp  Act  died  in  due  course  of  time,  and 
Tryon  rolled  up  his  sleeves  and,  crowning  himself  with 
a  wreath  of  laurel,  indited  a  wordy  proclamation, 
which  the  people  received  with  great  joy.  Then  his 
Excellency,  seeing  the  good  humor  of  the  populace, 

87 


Wallannah  \ 

rushed  through  the  assembly  a  bill  appropriating  a 
large  sum  of  money  for  the  building  of  a  palace  to 
protect  the  gubernatorial  head  from  the  weather.  At 
the  same  time  the  legislature,  bending  to  the  governor's 
opinion  that  King  George  had  repealed  the  Stamp 
Act  out  of  love  for  him,  brought  together  some  pieces 
of  good,  fertile  land  and  inflicted  upon  this  tract 
the  county  name  of  Tryon.  Later  on,  when  that 
gentleman's  renown  had  ceased  to  be  a  thing  by  which 
to  conjure,  the  sovereign  people  split  this  Tryon  county 
into  two,  which  were  then  given  the  names  which  still 
are  theirs  —  Lincoln  and  Rutherford. 

Tryon  worked  harder  for  his  palace  than  he  ever 
labored  for  the  good  of  the  people  of  his  province. 
Nor  did  he  work  alone;  for  his  wife  dined  and  feted 
and  flattered  every  man  and  v/oman  whose  influence 
seemed  worth  a  shilling;  and  her  sister,  Esther  Wake, 
beautiful  and  of  wondrous  fascination,  won  to  the 
governor's  hobby  every  one  with  whom  she  talked.  As 
an  outcom.e,  the  people  of  the  province  were  taxed 
fifteen  thousand  pounds  for  Tryon's  palace;  and,  this 
sum  falling  short  of  the  needed  total,  the  governor 
m.ade  up  the  deficit  by  a  dexterous  error  in  computing 
the  balance  on  hand  to  the  credit  of  the  public  school 
fund. 

To  build  this  palace  (which  for  its  day  was  a 
splendid  provincial  edifice)  bricks  and  prepared 
material  were  brought  from  England,  and  one  John 
Llawks,  recorded  as  a  Moor  from  Malta,  was  employed 
as  its  official  architect.  The  building  was  completed 
in  October  of  1770;  and  the  Latin  inscription  over  its 
portal    thenceforth    looked    serenely    down    upon    the 

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A  Bit  of  History 

taxpayers  who  had  invited  its  sarcasm.    This  was  what 
it  said : 

"Rege  pio,  dira  inimica  tyrannis 
Vertuti  has  jedes  libera  terra  dedit. 
Sint  domus  tt  dominus  saeclis  exempla  futuris 
His  artes,  mores,  jura  legesque  colanL" 

It  was  well  that  all  the  people  could  not  read  the 
language  of  ancient  Rome;  for  had  the  words  on 
Tryon's  palace  been  translated  into  the  king's  English 
and  been  graven  on  the  heart  of  every  man  whose 
hard-earned  gold  had  gone  to  the  building  of  that 
house,  something  unpleasant  might  have  occurred. 
Translated,  the  inscription  announced  the  following 
marvellous  falsehood : 

"A  free  and  happy  people,  opposed  to  cruel  tyrants, 
have  given  this  edifice  to  virtue.  May  the  house  and 
its  inmate,  as  an  example  for  future  ages,  here  cultivate 
the  arts,  order,  justice  and  the  laws." 

After  the  people  began  to  realize  that  a  palace  was 
a  costly  gift  to  such  virtues  as  were  represented  by 
Tryon,  they  were  also  made  to  feel  with  redoubled 
weight  the  extortions  and  frauds  of  the  provincial 
officers.  In  Orange  county  a  number  of  citizens  filed 
with  the  court  a  dignified  and  forcible  protest  against 
the  current  practice  of  inordinate  feeing.  This 
resulted  in  the  convention  held  at  Haddock's  Mill  in 
October,  1766,  and  at  which  resolutions  were  adopted 
condemning  such  illegal  practices. 

In  the  spring  of  1768  the  active  spirits  of  the  former 
convention  met  again  and  formed  an  association  for 
the  regulation  of  public  grievances  and  abuse  of  power. 

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Wallannah 

They  resolved  "to  pay  only  such  taxes  as  \vere 
agreeable  to  law  and  applied  to  the  purpose  therein 
named,  and  to  pay  no  officer  more  than  his  legal  fees." 
The  fact  that  such  a  simple  declaration  was  necessary 
proves  the  length  to  which  these  abuses  had  been 
carried.  The  formation  of  the  Regulators  with  this 
avowed  purpose  was  a  bitter  pill  for  Tryon,  and  for  his 
favorite,  whose  unfailing  procedure  was  to  charge  two 
or  three  or  more  fees  for  every  official  service,  one  fee 
to  go  to  the  public  treasury,  the  others  to  their  pockets. 

Among  these  gentlemanly  highwaymen  was 
Edmund  Fanning,  who  rose  from  poverty  to  affluence, 
from  the  ranks  of  the  rabble  of  some  other  state 
to  the  position  of  a  green  bay  tree  flourishing  in 
Tryon's  favor ;  for  he  was  clerk  of  the  court  of  Orange, 
colonel  of  the  county  militia,  an  attorney-at-law,  and 
representative  (in  a  restricted  sense)  in  the  general 
assembly.  In  addition  to  these  things.  Fanning  was 
the  most  polished  robber  of  his  age.  He  extorted  fee 
upon  fee;  and  the  people?  —  "Make  your  complaints, 
gentlemen:  Governor  Tryon  will  consider  them." 
Then,  "Your  Excellency,  some  seditious  persons  are 
misrepresenting  me  in  a  petition  to  your  Excellency. 
But  behold  in  me  a  man  after  your  Excellency's  own 
heart !"  Whereupon  would  William,  the  Wolf  drop  one 
eyelid  by  the  fraction  of  an  inch,  and  murmur, 
"Edmund  dear,  the  people  were  made  for  us,  not  we 
for  the  people."  And  Fanning  increased  in  wealth ; 
and  incidentally  played  fast  and  loose  v/ith  a  pretty  — 
However,  that  comes  further  on. 

In  April  of  1768  the  people,  greatly  exasperated  by 
the  illegal  acts  of  Fanning  and  the  county  sheriff,  and 

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A  Bit  of  History 

flespairing  of  any  result  from  appeals  to  the  governor 
and  to  the  crown,  made  something  of  a  demonstration 
against  these  inexpressible  gentlemen.  The  consequence 
was  perfectly  natural.  The  people  had  assumed  rights  ; 
the  government  insisted  that  its  officers'  rights  must 
come  first ;  and  Herman  Husbands  and  James  Hunter, 
two  of  the  leaders,  were  arrested  and  given  a 
comfortable  place  within  the  walls  of  the  Hillsborough 

jail. 

The  Regulators,  reasonably  enough,  were  displeased 
at  the  law  which  made  fish  of  one  class  and  fowl  of 
another ;  for  they  had  appealed  to  the  courts  for  relief 
from  extortion  and  fraud  and  had  met  with  rebuff 
upon  rebufl:',  yet  the  first  of  them  who  dared  to 
raise  a  hand  against  the  commissioned  thieves  was 
made  to  suffer  the  penalty  of  the  statutes.  These 
men  congregated  in  large  numbers  and  started  for 
Hillsborough  for  the  purpose  of  freeing  their 
imprisoned  comrades.  Hearing  of  this.  Fanning  and 
his  confreres  suddenly  found  it  convenient  to  release 
the  prisoners  on  bail. 

A  month  later  James  Hunter  and  Rednap  Howell, 
prominent  Regulators,  presented  to  the  governor  and 
his  council  a  paper  setting  forth  the  people's  grievances 
in  simple,  straightforward  terms,  and  praying 
reasonable  redress.  The  council,  at  Tryon's  dictation, 
praised  Fanning  for  his  dignified  and  irreproachable 
course,  and  poured  condemnation  ad  nauseam  upon 
the  Regulators  for  daring  to  consider  the  people 
possessed  of  such  a  devil  as  rights  of  citizenship. 

This  astonishing  attitude  gave  increased  popularity 
to    the    cause    espoused    by    the    Regulators.      The 

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Wallannah 

movement  shaped  itself  into  somewhat  of  an  avalanche, 
and  swept  across  the  province,  gaining  weight  and 
force  as  it  went.  It  came  to  a  stop  near  Hillsborough 
in  July,  1768.  By  that  time  the  rebels  (to  use  Tryon's 
term  of  endearment)  numbered  thirty-seven  hundred; 
but  the  governor  mustered  his  army,  and  thus  developed 
the  fact  that  the  Regulators  were  not  looking  for  war. 
Their  dispersal  was  effected  without  the  shedding  of 
blood. 

Then  the  courts  began  to  take  a  more  active  part. 
A  large  number  of  the  "rioters"  were  lodged  in  jail, 
and  were  finally  brought  to  trial.  Hunter  and  several 
others  were  remanded  to  the  prison,  and  Husbands  was 
acquitted.  William  the  Wolf,  to  whom  an  acquittal  by 
a  court  meant  little,  refused  to  pardon  Husbands  and  a 
dozen  others,  but  took  the  stigma  from  the  names  of 
all  the  other  participants  in  the  movement  of  the 
Regulators. 

In  the  spring  of  1770  the  beloved  Maurice  Moore, 
justice  of  the  superior  court,  announced  that  the  Rowan 
county  people  were  so  aroused  against  the  constituted 
law  that  civil  processes  were  impossible  of  execution 
among  them.  Similar  conditions  existed  in  other 
counties.  The  sheriff  of  Orange  attempted  the  service 
of  a  warrant,  and  was  seized  by  John  Pugh,  a  famous 
woodsman,  and  by  several  other  Regulators,  and 
received  a  wholesome  chastisement.  In  Dobbs  county 
the  sheriff  was  indiscreet  enough  to  essay  the  capture 
of  two  Regulators,  and  was  fortunate  in  escaping  with 
his  life  —  which,  be  it  said,  was  more  than  holds  true 
with  his  deputy.  The  superior  court  at  Hillsborough 
was  invaded  by  Husbands,  Hunter,  Howell,  William 

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A  Bit  of  History 

Butler,  Samuel  Divinny  and  others,  who  bundled  up 
the  lawyers  and  court  officers,  stood  them  up  in  the 
streets  and  thrashed  them  soundly.  Judge  Henderson, 
presiding  over  this  body,  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
an  adjournment  would  be  quite  appropriate  under  the 
circumstances,  and  acted  accordingly.  More  than  this, 
the  worthy  judge,  not  liking  the  look  of  things,  left 
the  town  in  great  precipitation  some  time  during  the 
night.  The  Regulators  held  this  court  in  suspenso  for 
a  full  year. 

Fanning  soon  met  a  small  portion  of  his  just  deserts 
at  the  hands  of  those  whom  he  had  wronged.  He  was 
taken  from  the  court-house  at  Hillsborough,  and  his 
punishment  was  well  under  way  when  he  took  refuge 
in  a  store,  closely  followed  by  a  shower  of  stones  and 
brickbats.  After  this  the  enraged  crowd  tore  down  the 
colonel's  house  and  demolished  its  furniture.  The 
general  public  thought  this  no  wrong,  as  all  that 
Fanning  had  came  by  extortion  from  the  people. 

About  this  time  the  governor  and  his  hirelings 
devoted  themselves  to  securing  evidence  of  the  treason 
of  these  Regulators,  and  affidavits  innumerable  were 
taken  to  prove  this.  Among  these  was  that  of  one 
Robert  Lytle,  who  swore  that  he  had  seen  the 
Regulators  encamped,  and  drinking  damnation  to 
King  George.  This,  of  course,  was  reprehensible,  and 
it  was  also  ill-advised,  for  the  damnation  of  King 
George  was  something  rather  beyond  the  scope  of  the 
good  people  whom  Lytle  visited. 

In  the  last  month  of  1770  Tryon  urged  upon 
the  assembly  the  necessity  of  having  an  increased 
army;    for  he  saw  that  naught  but  blood  could  make 

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Wallannah 

submission  out  of  a  chaos  of  ideas  of  liberty  and  of 
equitable  representation. 

Husbands  was  the  assemblyman  from  Orange,  but 
his  patriotism  became  too  conspicuous,  and  he  was 
expelled,  and  afterward  spent  several  days  in  jail  as 
a  reward  for  past  demonstrations  in  the  cause  of  liberty. 

February  of  1771  marked  the  appearance  of  a 
characteristic  proclamation  from  Tryon,  ordering  that 
no  one  should  sell  powder,  shot,  or  lead  until  William 
should  permit.  This  was  thought  to  be  a  measure 
which  would  driye  the  Regulators  into  the  ways  of 
peace,  or  to  the  use  of  bows  and  arrows.  One 
merchant,  however —    But  of  that  later. 

A  month  afterward  Tryon  intercepted  a  letter 
written  by  Rednap  Howell,  and  intended  for  James 
Hunter,  concerning  an  attack  upon  New  Bern,  and  the 
council  at  once  provided  for  the  raising  of  an  army,  to 
be  headed  by  his  Excellency,  and  to  sweep  the 
Regulators  from  the  soil  of  North  Carolina. 

By  this  time  the  patriots  were  in  arms,  and  were 
ready  to  meet  Tryon  should  he  seek  for  battle ;  but,  be 
it  remembered,  their  cry  was  ever,  "Give  us  our  rights, 
make  your  officers  obey  the  written  laws,  and  we  will 
disperse  in  peace,  and,  as  loyal  subjects  of  his  Majesty 
King  George,  will  uphold  the  government." 

And  Tryon's  unfailing  answer  was,  "I  cannot 
concede  rights  to  rebels;  the  king's  officers  and  my 
officers  are  honest  and  upright,  never  failing  in  their 
duty ;  and  "  —  under  his  breath,  of  course  —  "hang  it ! 
you've  got  to  fight,  anyway !" 

Men  have  asked,  "Why  did  not  the  Regulators 
appeal  to  the  courts  for  justice?"     Well,  they  did. 

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A  Bit  of  History 

They  charged  Fanning  with  extortion,  and  Fanning 
pleaded  guiUy  (on  Tryon's  advice)  to  six  indictments. 
Then  were  the  people  glad  for  a  few  moments ;  for 
they  thought  that  justice  had  at  last  awakened  in  the 
land.  Fanning,  professedly  guilty  on  six  damning 
indictments  !  Yes ;  and  Fanning  was  fined  one  penny 
on  each  count  —  sixpence  for  the  bunched  lot. 

Much  of  conflicting  tenor  has  been  written 
concerning  Herman  Flusbands.  Beyond  question  the 
man  was  more  than  once  involved  in  what  the 
government  was  pleased  to  call  rioting;  but  so  were 
good  men  in  all  the  colonies,  and  their  descendants 
point  to  the  fact  with  a  just  pride.  The  thorn  in 
Tryon's  side  seemed  to  be,.more  than  all  else.  Husbands' 
"seditious  utterances" ;  for  Husbands  was  the  man 
who  wrote  the  paper  read  to  the  court  in  Orange,  the 
resolutions  of  the  Haddock's  Mill  Convention,  and 
every  document  of  importance  which  came  from  the 
councils  of  the  Regulators.  On  this  account  Husbands 
may  have  been  a  traitor;  perhaps  he  was;  but  if  so, 
he  stood  in  good  company,  for  then  was  Benjamin 
Franklin  a  traitor,  and  Patrick  Henry,  and  Hancock, 
and  Adams,  and  a  thousand  others.  If  these  were 
traitors,  then  Husbands  was  a  traitor;  and  they  were 
the  men  who  made  free  America. 

Furthermore,  governors  like  Tryon  create  a  demand 
for  men  like  Husbands  and  Howell  and  Hunter  and 
their  associates.  Trampling  upon  human  rights  can 
have  but  one  result :  the  rights  will  spring  upward,  and 
the  right  men  with  them,  and  will  smite  the  trampler. 
And  that  is  unpleasant  for  tyrants  and  for  the  friends 
of  tyrants.     At  least,  Tryon  found  it  so. 

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Wallannah 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"Call  that  Man  a  Frencher!" 

T  was  a  cool  clay  near  the  close  of  the  first 
week  in  April  of  the  year  1771.  On  the 
New  Bern  parade  ground  Governor  Tryon, 
greatly  pufifed  up  v/ith  military  vainglory, 
was  holdnig  a  review  of  his  Alajesty's  provincial  troops 
of  North  Carolina.  From  miles  around  had  come  the 
people,  all  in  holiday  attire,  and  all  ready  to  cheer  for 
the  king,  for  Tryon  or  for  the  army,  whichever  seemed 
the  most  timely ;  for  cheers  mean  little  on  a  gala  day, 
and  many  who  shouted  for  Tryon  would  as  readily 
have  cheered  the  devil.  Their  only  aim  was  the  making 
of  a  great  noise.    In  this  their  success  was  amazing. 

In  one  of  the  largest  stores  on  Pollock  street  were 
congregated  numerous  men  of  many  callings,  dressed 
in  the  various  garbs  of  the  planter,  the  artisan  and  the 
woodsman.  These  were  the  people  who,  caring  nothing 
for  the  vain  pomp  of  the  governor's  review,  had  sought 
congenial  companionship  within  the  yellow-fronted 
shop  of  Simon  Fawn. 

The  merchant  beh-'nd  the  counter,  obsequious  and 
good-humored,  seemed  amply  blessed  with  customers, 
although  the  greater  part  of  the  score  or  more  men 
who  lounged  in  his  chairs  and  kicked  their  heels 
against  his  well-filled  boxes,  were  not  there  for  trading. 

96 


"  Call  That  Man  a  Frencher  ! '' 

Fawn  himself  might  have  attracted  attention  in 
any  crowd.  He  was  a  large,  round-faced  man,  of 
ministerial  look,  with  light  blue  eyes  that  shifted  rather 
too  much.  He  moved  like  one  proud  of  his  physical 
superiority,  and  bore  that  air  of  condescension  so 
common  among  large  men,  giving  him  an  appearance 
of  good-fellowship  and  benevolence.  This,  naturally, 
did  him  immense  credit  with  his  friends  and 
acquaintances.  His  manner  was  affable  and  cordial, 
his  voice  deep  and  cheery,  and  the  expression  of  his 
face  generally  pleasing,  barring  the  restlessness  of  his 
light  eyes.  This  peculiarity,  however,  seldom  attracted 
more  than  passing  notice ;  for  Simon  Fawn's  popularity 
and  his  sterling  qualities  were  too  patent  to  justify  any 
man  in  saying  that  the  look  in  his  eyes  was  furtive  and 
cunning. 

During  the  first  half  hour  of  their  meeting,  the 
motley  throng  within  the  store  conversed  on  general 
topics  and  in  a  general  way;  but  later,  when  the  air 
grew  thick  with  tobacco  smoke,  and  the  customers 
ceased  their  coming  (for  the  martial  review  was  then 
at  its  height),  they  separated  into  little  groups  and 
talked  together  in  subdued  tones. 

Two  or  three  men  sat  aside  from  the  rest  and  said 
but  little.  One  of  these,  a  portly,  well-built  man,  in 
the  simple  garb  of  a  Quaker,  sat  just  inside  the  closed 
door,  smoking  a  long-stemmed  pipe  and  showing  more 
than  a  casual  interest  in  the  snatches  of  conversation 
which  came  to  his  ears.  This  man,  though  past  the 
prime  of  life,  seemed  the  very  incarnation  of  vigor. 
His  large  grey  eyes  shone  with  the  boldness  of  an 
eagle's,    and    the    height    of    his    forehead    and    the 

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Wallannah 

squareness  of  his  lower  jaw  were  accentuated  ratiier 
than  hidden  by  the  curhng  masses  of  his  vivid  red  hair 
and  beard. 

Close  beside  the  Quaker,  and  upon  apparently 
friendly  terms  with  him,  sat  a  man  of  similar  build, 
attired  in  a  plain  suit  of  jeans  and  wearing  a  pair  of 
stout,  mud-spattered  boots.  Beneath  the  narrow- 
brimmed  hat,  which  rested  jauntily  upon  his  head,  fell 
a  profusion  of  curly  black  hair.  His  large  and 
vari-colored  cravat  was  fastidiously  arranged,  and  he 
wore  a  slip  of  holly  on  his  coat  lapel.  Younger  by 
several  years  than  his  companion,  his  manner  was 
animated  to  a  noticeable  degree,  and  his  eyes  alternated 
with  the  glow  of  vigorous  spirit  and  the  sparkle  of 
good  humor. 

A  third  man,  tall  and  of  muscular  frame,  stood 
leaning  with  his  back  to  the  counter.  His  fox-skin 
cap  and  brown  hunting-suit  would  have  proclaimed 
his  vocation  even  had  his  long  rifle  not  stood,  with  butt 
upon  the  floor,  beside  him. 

"Stirring  times,  neighbor,"  remarked  Fawn,  movmg 
to  a  place  behind  the  hunter.  "But  how  about  the  meat, 
friend  Witten?    Where  is  your  venison?" 

The  woodsman  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Sell  me 
powder  and  lead,  and  I'll  bring  the  meat,"  he  answered, 
looking  back  and  giving  a  short,  mirthless  laugh.  "I 
can't  catch  deer  with  bird-lime." 

"Persuade  Governor  Tryon  to  repeal  his  law,  my 
friend,  and  you'll  get  your  powder,"  said  Fawn,  smiling 
blandly.  "We  must  be  good  citizens,  Witten,  peaceful 
and  law-abiding." 

"Yes,"  retorted  the  hunter,  with  a  sneer,  "peaceful 

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"Call  That  Man  a  Frencher ! " 

and  law-abidin' !  Our  abidin'  may  be  good  enough,  but 
the  law's  a  damned  outrage." 

"  'Sh !  Witten,  don't  start  such  talk  as  that."  Then, 
in  lower  tones,  "the  governor  has  big  ears,  you 
know." 

Witten  laughed  loudly.  "Every  ass  has  got  big 
ears,"  he  said.  "The  gov'nor  wouldn't  look  nat'ral 
without  'em." 

A  man  lounged  forward  from  the  crowd,  "Pretty 
good,  friend,"  he  said,  addressing  Witten ;  "but  the 
Cherokees  call  the  governor  a  better  name  than  that. 
They  say  he's  'The  Bloody  Wolf;  and  you  may  find 
he's  got  teeth  as  well  as  ears." 

"The  Injuns  is  wrong,"  was  the  bold  retort.  "A 
wolf  is  a  wild  dog  as  loves  freedom.  He  don't  wear 
no  silver  collars ;  it's  yer  city  dogs  as  does  that.  King 
George  owns  a  heap  o'  that  breed,  an'  Gov'nor  Tryon's 
the  bigges'  one  in  the  lot." 

"Wolf,  dog,  or  whatever  you  please,  for  the 
governor,"  said  a  quiet-looking  man,  rising  from  his 
chair  and  coming  forward;  "but  we're  the  asses,  and 
will  be  so  as  long  as  we  bear  the  burdens  the  king  and 
his  servants  put  upon  us."  He  drew  a  bundle  of 
printed  pamphlets  from  his  pocket.  "Here  friends," 
he  said,  handing  them  about  the  crowd,  "take  these 
sermons  and  read  them.  Then  you'll  see  that  what  I 
say  is  true.    Take  one,  Witten." 

The  hunter  smiled  as  he  shook  his  head.  "Keep 
it,  Pugh ;  I  know  the  thing  by  heart  —  cover  to  cover. 
Don't  believe  me,  eh  ?  Well,  here's  yer  text :  'Issachar 
is  a  strong  ass  couching  down  between  two  burdens: 
and  he  saw  that  rest  was  good,  and  the  land  that  it  was 

99 


Wallannah 

pleasant ;  and  bowed  his  shoulder  to  bear,  and  became 
a  servant  unto  tribute.'  " 

The  little  knots  of  men  had  stopped  their 
conversation,  and  the  eyes  of  all  were  fixed  upon 
Witten. 

"That's  the  first  text,"  continued  the  hunter,  "an' 
the  sermon  goes  to  prove  how  Issachar  stands  for  the 
people  —  us  people  —  an'  how  civil  slav'ry  an'  religious 
slav'ry  is  the  two  burdens.  Ain't  that  what  it  says?" 
And  he  smiled  triumphantly  at  Pugh. 

"Who  writ  the  thing?"  called  some  one  from  the 
crowd. 

"Some  says  Herman  Husbands,"  answered  Witten, 
"an'  som.e  says  Ben.  Franklin.  They're  two  o'  the  same 
kind,  anyhow  —  cousins  by  blood  an'  liberty-men  by 
brains.  If  we  had  enough  o'  sich  we  wouldn't  be  no 
Issachars." 

A  dozen  men  stamped  their  feet  in  applause.  Fawn 
gave  an  anxious  look  toward  the  door. 

"Where's  this  'ere  Husbands  now  ?"  asked  a  farmer 
sitting  astride  an  empty  barrel.    "Hidin'  in  a  tree?" 

"A  long  ways  from  here,  I  reckon,"  Witten 
answered.  "He  ain't  runnin'  his  head  into  no  gallus 
rope  by  comin'  round  these  parts.  Sence  the  gov'nor 
got  him  dumped  out  'n  th'  assembly,  he's  made  a  clean 
pa'r  o'  heels,  don't  ye  fergit  that.  The  gov'nor's 
outlawed  him,  but  the  people's  goin'  to  care  fer  Herman 
Husbands." 

Once  more  the  crowd  answered  with  the  thunder 
of  heavy  boot-heels. 

"Can't  the  man  take  care  of  himself  ?"  asked  Fawn, 
with  a  forced  laugh. 

100 


^^^5r^' 


"Speech  is  free,"  retorted  the  woodman,  his  voice  louder  than 

BEFORE 


"  Call  That  Man  a  Frencher !  " 

Witten  spun  around  on  his  heel.  "Take  care  of 
himself!"  he  roared.  "You  bet  he  can;  an'  you  bet  he 
will,  too.  An'  he  can  help  us  take  care  of  ourselves, 
'spite  of  the  gov'nor  an'  all  his  gang  o'  thieves." 

A  great  shout  came  up  from  the  crowd. 

Fawn,  his  face  whitening,  leaned  over  the  counter 
and  whispered  into  Witten's  ear.  "For  Heaven's  sake, 
be  careful,  man!  The  governor's  troops  could  hear 
that  yell." 

"Speech  is  free,"  retorted  the  woodman,  his  voice 
louder  than  before.  "If  the  gov'nor's  chicken-hearted 
troops  don't  Hke  what  I  say,  they  can  come  in  an'  string 
me  up.  It's  comin'  soon  enough,  anyhow."  Then  he 
turned  to  his  audience.  "I  ain't  no  traitor,"  he  said, 
"but,"  and  he  shook  his  great  fist  toward  the  governor's 
palace,  "I  want  the  squar'  treatment,  an'  the  law  an' 
the  jestice  that  the  king's  Lazarus-lickin'  hound  over 
yonder  won't  give  us.  That's  what  I  want ;  an'  that's 
what  you  want,  too." 

The  din  of  applause  drowned  his  voice.  Witten 
held  up  his  hand  to  command  silence. 

"If  the  gov'nor,"  he  said,  bending  forward  and 
looking  his  auditors  in  their  faces ;  "if  the  gov'nor 
loved  us  people  as  much  now  as  he  said  he  did  when 
he  wanted  money  to  build  that  'ere  palace  o'  his'n,  he 
wouldn't  have  to  raise  no  army  to  fight  the  Regulators. 
He  made  plenty  o'  promises  an'  talked  mighty  fine  till 
he  got  all  the  money  he  wanted ;  an'  after  that,  what 
did  you  git  ?  Nothin'.  That's  what  you  got ;  an'  that's 
all  yer  goin'  to  git.  He's  fixed  now  with  all  he  wants, 
an'  you  can  feed  and  clothe  his  lazy  spen'thrift  fav'rites 
and  can't  open  your  mouths  to  say  nothin'.     There's 

lOI 


Wallannah 

where  you  stand.  He  don't  care  who  sinks  so  long  as 
he  can  swim.  You  gave  him  his  palace ;  and  now  he 
wants  you  to  give  'im  a  crown.  He's  holdin'  his  empty 
head  now  like  he's  born  a  king." 

"  'Pride  goeth  before  destruction,  and  a  haughty 
spirit  before  a  fall/  "  sounded  a  deep  voice  from  the 
front  of  the  room. 

All  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  speaker. 

The  Quaker  sat  quietly,  smoking  his  pipe.  After 
a  moment  he  took  the  stem  from  between  his  teeth. 
"Pardon  my  interruption,  friends ;  but  if  you  think  my 
quotation  fits  the  case,  remember  it.  Now,  tell  me  one 
thing.    Who  are  these  Regulators?" 

Pugh  answered  him.  "I  guess  you're  a  stranger  in 
these  parts,  sir.  Where  did  you  come  from,  not  to 
know  the  Regulators?" 

"I've  come  from  Pennsylvania,"  answered  the 
red-bearded  man,  quietly,  "and  my  name  is  Jenkins. 
Candidly,  I  have  heard  something  of  the  Regulators ; 
but  accounts  differ  so  that  I  want  the  truth.  Some 
have  called  them  good  and  true  men;  others,  rioters 
and  disturbers  of  the  peace.    Who  is  right?" 

A  dozen  men  replied.  The  babel  of  eager  shouts 
was  louder  than  had  been  the  repeated  applause  that 
greeted  Witten's  speech. 

Fawn,  coming  from  behind  the  counter,  took  the 
hunter  by  the  arm  and  hurried  him  into  the  back  room. 
"Witten,"  he  said,  excitedly,  "there's  danger  in  all  this 
talk ;  you've  got  to  stop  it.  Tryon  suspects  me  now." 
He  turned  and  took  two  packages  from  a  book-case 
shelf.  "You  wanted  powder  and  lead,"  he  said,  in  a 
whisper.     "There  are  both.     It's  a  risk;    and  —  keep 

I02 


"Call  That  Man  a  Frencher!" 

your  money;  but  for  Heaven's  sake,  go  out  and  shui 
those  people's  mouths.    They'll  ruin  me." 

Witten  dropped  the  ammunition  into  an  inside 
pocket  of  his  coat,  and  left  the  room. 

After  he  had  gone,  a  tall  man,  his  features  hidden 
by  his  slouched  hat  and  by  the  upturned  collar  of  his 
grey  military  cloak,  looked  up  from  the  table  at  which 
he  had  been  writing  throughout  the  conversation 
between  Witten  and  Fawn.  "You  gave  Witten  his 
powder,"  he  said,  with  a  smile;   "but  where's  mine?" 

"I'll  have  it  ready  to-night,  Captain.  Want  it  at 
the  same  place?" 

"The  same  place ;  but  don't  send  it,  bring  it." 

"Certainly;  if  you'll  meet  me  yourself.  You  can 
see,  Captain,  I  can't  risk  getting  a  third  party  into  this 
thing." 

"As  you  will,"  answered  the  officer,  curtly.  "And 
at  what  hour?" 

"Eleven,  to-night." 

"Very  well,"  and  he  resumed  his  writing. 

Fawn  started  toward  the  door. 

"A  moment  more,"  called  the  other.  "I  wish  to 
send  this  letter  to  Lord  Durham,  a  guest  of  the 
governor.    Can  you  work  it  for  me?" 

"Why  —  yes,  yes.  But  here's  a  customer.  Excuse 
me  a  moment,  Captain."  The  store-keeper  went  into 
the  front  room,  where  quiet  now  reigned,  and  the  door 
was  carefully  closed  behind  him. 

The  officer  returned  to  his  writing,  but  his  eyebrows 
were  drawn  together  with  a  frown. 

Simon  Fawn's  customer  was  an  Indian  boy,  about 
sixteen   years   of   age.     His   dress   was   a   ludicrous 

103 


Wallannah 

combination  of  the  fineries  of  barbarity  and  civilization. 
From  the  feathered  cap  on  his  head  to  the  gayly 
beaded  moccasins  on  his  feet  the  boy  was  a  human 
kaleidoscope;  and  buckskin  leggings  with  red  fringe 
upon  them,  a  pair  of  sky-blue  silk  breeches,  a  shirt  and 
waistcoat  of  the  latest  Parisian  mode,  a  glaring  yellow, 
neck-scarf,  and  over  all  a  red  and  green  horse-blanket, 
were  the  things  that  went  to  the  making  up  of  the 
spectacle. 

Fawn  smiled  broadly  as  the  vision  greeted  his  eyes. 
"What  will  you  have,  my  boy  ?"  he  asked,  bending  over 
the  counter. 

"Me  want  spurs." 

"Spurs?  To  be  sure;  I've  got  some  beauties  here, 
just  the  thing  for  you." 

"No  for  me.     Fit  Caiheek  —  foot  leetle." 

After  considerable  parley,  the  purchase  was  made 
and  the  boy  left  the  store. 

"Who's  yer  gaudy  friend.  Fawn,"  asked  the  Man 
on  the  Barrel. 

Witten  responded.  "Waits  on  the  young  Frencher 
at  the  gov'nor's." 

"Bah  !"  growled  the  questioner,  in  disgust.  "French 
and  Injuns.  Both  our  nat'ral-born  enemies,  an'  both 
kissin'  Tryon's  feet." 

"Oh!  well,"  said  Witten,  oiling  the  rising  waves, 
"let  yer  by-gones  be  by-gones.  We  fought  the  French 
an'  Injun  war  once,  an'  we  ain't  goin'  to  fight  it  ag'in. 
The  French  is  our  friends ;  let  'em  stay  so." 

Opportunely  enough  the  door  opened  and  a  stranger 
entered.     The  room  was  silent  as  a  tomb. 

Simon  was  the  first  to  speak.    "Walk  up,  my  friend, 

104 


"Call  That  Man  a  Frencher!" 

walk  up."  'Then,  as  the  man  approached  him,  "Let 
me  see,  Mr.  —  Your  name  has  shpped  my  mind,  but 
I've  certainly  met  you  before." 

The  new-comer,  a  short,  thick-set  man  of  thirty, 
looked  puzzled.  'T  guess  you  have,  if  you  say  so,"  he 
answered ;  "but,"  with  a  little  laugh,  'T  can't  remember 
when  nor  how.  My  name  is  Ross  —  John  Ross,  from 
up  the  river." 

The  merchant's  eyes  dropped  for  a  moment.  "I'm 
Simon  Fawn,  as  you  can  see  by  the  sign  over  the  door." 
He  looked  up  again.  "But  I  guess  we've  never  met: 
I  don't  remember  any  Ross.  But  now,  what  can  I  do 
for  you?  Here's  a  big  variety  to  choose  from."  And 
he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  heavily  laden  shelves 
along  the  wall. 

"A  little  later,"  said  Ross,  smiling  and  walking  back 
toward  the  door.  "One  of  your  guests  is  an  old  friend 
of  mine.  I  must  have  a  word  with  him  first  of  all." 
He  crossed  to  the  curly-haired  man  with  the  holly  on 
his  coat.  "Howell,"  he  whispered,  putting  himself 
between  the  man  and  the  crowd,  "why  are  you  parading 
yourself  about  the  Carolinas.  This  is  no  place  for 
you." 

"Quiet,  Ross,"  admonished  the  other.  "Hunter  and 
I  are  bearers  of  dispatches  from  the  Regulators  to 
Tryon.  We  want  him  to  accept  our  terms  and  avert 
bloodshed." 

"Will  he  doit?" 

"No." 

"Then,  why  do  you  and  Hunter  risk  it?" 

"We  have  to  do  our  duty,  that's  why." 

"But  the  danger?" 

105 


Wallannah 

Howell  lifted  his  eyebrows  and  laughed  lightly. 
"Danger?    It  comes  with  our  daily  bread." 

John  turned  away.    "I'll  see  you  to-night,"  he  said. 

"Yes  —  if  all  is  well." 

During  their  talk  together,  both  perhaps  thinking 
that  Rednap  Howell  was  a  stranger  to  all  save  a  few 
of  those  about  them,  the  Man  on  the  Barrel  was 
humming  a  popular  air  in  a  soft  undertone.  As  John 
returned  to  the  counter  some  others  in  the  crowd  joined 
in  the  singing,  and  in  a  moment  the  room  rang  with  the 
words  of  Howell's  best  song — for  the  curly-haired 
man  was  the  poet-laureate  of  the  simple  patriots  of 
the  province. 

"Says  Frohawk  to  Fanning,  to  tell  the  plain  truth. 
When  I  came  to  this  country,  I  was  but  a  youth; 
My  fath— " 

"Neighbors,  neighbors !"  cried  Fawn,  in  an  agony 
of  apprehension  (the  clamor  had  made  the  pans  rattle 
on  the  shelves)  ;  "stop  that  noise.  You'll  bring  the 
governor  — " 

"Damn  the  governor!"  came  the  hot  retort. 

"Start  over  again,"  yelled  another.  "Fawn  put  us 
out  £)i  our  time." 

"Grind  out  the  next  verse,"  cried  the  Man  on  the 
Barrel. 

"Says  Fanning  to  Frohawk,  'tis  folly  to  He, 
I  rode  an  old  mare  that  was  blind  of  one  eye; 
Five  shillings — " 

"Hold  on,  friends!"  called  Fawn.  "Here  comes 
a  customer." 

1 06 


"Call  That  Man  a  Frencher!" 

"The  Frenchman  from  the  palace,"  muttered  some 
one. 

"Shut  up!  while  Simon  bleeds  him,"  laughed  the 
Man  on  the  Barrel, 

The  door  opened  and  the  young  Parisian  entered. 
The  eyes  that  sought  him  curiously  at  first  began  soon 
to  exhibit  undoubted  admiration.  For  the  Frenchman, 
although  apparently  not  more  than  a  score  of  years  in 
age,  was  tall  above  the  common,  and  carried  tlie 
shoulders  of  an  Olympian  athlete,  and  upon  them  a 
head  held  high  as  became  one  of  his  station,  with  a  face 
strong  in  feature  and  high-bred  in  its  every  expression. 
Such  was  Motier  Du  Val,  the  friend  of  Governor 
Tryon. 

He  walked  to  the  counter. 

Fawn  met  him  with  his  characteristic  smile.  "Can 
I  do  something  for  you,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"This  is  Mr.  Fawn?"  was  the  questioning  response, 
in  a  voice  that  had  but  a  slight  suggestion  of  foreign 
accent. 

"That's  my  name,  sir;    at  your  service." 

"My  Indian  servant  made  a  purchase  of  you  a  short 
time  ago,  did  he  not?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  sir.  I  waited  on  him  very  gladly.  A 
pair  of  spurs,  sir.    I  hope  they  suited  you." 

"Perfectly.  But  the  boy  picked  up  this  knife 
somewhere  —  he  thinks  here  —  and  wished  me  to 
return  it.  I  would  have  asked  him  to  bring  it  to  you, 
but  fearing  he  might  find  difificulty  in  expressing 
himself  clearly,  I  preferred  to  make  the  restitution 
myself." 

Fawn  took  the  knife.     "It  is  my  penknife,  sir,"  he 

107 


Wallannah 

said.  "Much  obliged,  very  much  obliged,  sir !  Perfectly 
natural  on  the  boy's  part.  No  ill-will,  sir  —  none 
whatever.  People  put  things  into  their  pockets  without 
thinking  —  fingering  and  fumbling  from  mere  habit. 
I  do  it  myself,  sometimes.  He's  an  honest  fellow  to 
restore  it :  few  Indians  would  do  it." 

Du  Val  had  been  regarding  the  merchant  with  an 
amused  and  tolerant  smile.  "I  will  tell  him  of  your 
good  opinion,  Mr.  Fawn,"  he  said,  when  Simon  had 
finished  his  rambling  dissertation.  "He  will  doubtless 
appreciate  it." 

"I  hope  so,  sir;  I  hope  so.  Anything  else,  sir. 
Some  fine  gloves,  just  in  from  England.  Let  me  show 
them  to  you,  sir." 

"No,  no,  not  to-day.  But  —  have  you  a  small 
memorandum  book,  something  to  fit  the  waistcoat 
pocket  ?" 

"The  very  thing,  sir.  Excuse  me  for  a  moment; 
they're  in  my  counting-room,  to  the  rear." 

Du  Val's  eyes  followed  the  bulky  form  of  the 
merchant  as  it  disappeared  through  the  glazed 
doorway.  While  he  still  looked  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  features  of  him  whom  Fawn  had  addressed  as 
"Captain."  The  face,  with  its  piercing  eyes  and  firm-set 
lips,  compelled  the  young  man's  notice,  and  it  stamped 
itself  indelibly  upon  his  memory. 

When  Simon  Fawn  returned  he  brought  several 
note  books  and,  moreover,  two  large  envelopes,  one 
addressed  in  the  handwriting  of  the  ofiicer  in  the 
counting-room,  the  other  in  Simon's  own  rude  scrawl. 

"You  are  a  guest  of  the  governor,  are  you  not  ?"  he 
asked,  after  Du  Val  had  selected  his  book. 

1 08 


"Call  That  Man  a  Frencher ! " 

"I  am,"  was  the  answer. 

"Then,  will  you  kindly  hand  this  note,"  holding  out 
the  officer's  missive,  "to  Lord  Durham,  very  privately; 
and  this  one,"  giving  him  the  envelope  bearing  his  own 
writing,  "to  Governor  Tryon?" 

"Certainly,  sir,"  answered  Du  Val,  as  he  held  the 
letters  in  his  hand  for  a  moment. 

Suddenly  a  crash  shook  the  air  like  a  thunder-clap. 
The  men  in  the  store  started  nervously,  and  the 
merchant's  wares  rattled  and  jumped  in  their  places. 
Du  Val  alone  had  not  stirred  by  as  much  as  the 
movement  of  an  eyelid. 

"Who  shot  the  cannon  ?"  asked  Rednap  Howell. 

"  'Squire  Cantwell's  boat,  the  Leopard,"  answered 
John  Ross.  "She  rounded  the  bend  as  I  came  down 
the  street." 

"  'Squire's  too  fond  of  salutin',"  muttered  Witten. 
"Burns  good  powder  fer  nothin'." 

The  Frechman,  smiling  a  little,  dropped  the  two 
letters  into  separate  pockets.  "Good  day,  sir,"  he  said, 
courteously.  The  floor  trembled  under  the  heavy  tread 
of  his  feet. 

The  Man  on  the  Barrel  was  the  first  to  speak.  "Call 
that  man  a  Frencher!"  he  said,  with  dry  sarcasm. 

"French  enough,"  retorted  Pugh.  "He  and  his 
father  came  up  from  Charleston.  They  landed  there 
fresh  from  France." 

"France  or  no  France,"  returned  the  first  speaker. 
"There  ain't  no  frog-eatin'  blood  in  him." 

"Powerful  lookin'  feller,"  commented  Witten. 

"Powerful !  Wal,  I  reckon  so !  Arms  and  legs  as 
big  as  my  waist." 

109 


Wallannah 

"Nervy,  too." 

"Nervy!  Did  you  see  'im  when  that  'ere  cannon 
went  off?  He  never  twitched  a  muscle.  He  ain't  no 
Frencher !"  And  the  Man  on  the  Barrel  spat  upon  the 
lioor  with  his  disgust  at  the  idea. 

Suddenly  from  without  came  the  sound  of  shouting, 
rising  in  a  wild  crescendo.  Witten  rushed  to  the  door 
and  thrust  out  his  head.  The  din  of  the  tumult  swept 
in  with  the  wind.  The  crowd  in  the  store  ran  toward 
the  street. 

"A  fight !  A  fight !"  yelled  the  Man  who  had  been 
on  the  Barrel. 

And  Simon  Fawn  was  left  alone  in  his  store. 


IIO 


A  Knightly  Deed  and  a  Forewarning 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  Knightly  Deed  and  a  Forewarning 

OTIER  DU  VAL,  after  leaving  the  store 
of  Simon  Fawn,  walked  leisurely  toward  the 
palace. 

The  military  review  had  ended,  and  the 
militiamen  in  broken  ranks  were  going  from  the  field. 
A  shimmering  cloud  of  dust  hanging  above  the  avenue 
to  the  palace  gave  evidence  that  the  governor  and  his 
suite  were  homeward  bound. 

The  decorated  review  stand  and  the  public 
bench-rows  were  slowly  yielding  up  their  crowds  of 
spectators,  when  a  long  wavering  line,  like  a  great, 
dark  caterpillar,  wound  slowly  up  the  path,  and  the 
sailors  and  immigrants  from  the  Leopard  came  up  from 
the  vessel's  wharf,  A  straggling,  motley  crowd  it  was. 
Rough,  sunburned  sailors,  with  the  roll  of  the  sea  still 
in  their  legs;  strange  looking  women  whose  figures 
and  faces  were  as  uncouth  and  as  unwomanlike  as  the 
men's ;  children  with  the  look  of  youth  pinched  from 
their  faces ;  these  were  they  who  had  come  across  the 
sea  in  'Squire  Cantwell's  ship. 

The  people  in  the  review  stand  saw  the  strangers 
and  gave  greeting  with  a  ripple  of  good-humored 
laughter.  This  was  pardonable  because  irresistible; 
but  the  people  of  the  lower  classes  and  the  young  men 

III 


Wallannah 

and  boys,  who  were  nearest  to  the  ship's  outpouring, 
went  a  point  too  far ;  and  surrounding  the  Httle  party 
began  a  fusilade  of  boisterous  shouts  and  offensive 
epithets.  This  was  the  sound  which  had  emptied 
Simon's  store. 

The  ship's  people  might  have  crossed  the  parade 
ground  without  interference  had  not  the  attention  of 
these  riotous  bystanders  been  drawn  to  one  person, 
whose  appearance  was  grotesque  even  in  that  rude 
procession.  This  was  a  woman  of  bulky  and  masculine 
figure,  swaying  from  side  to  side  as  she  walked,  and 
seeming  to  move  with  unbended  knees.  This  gait  was 
due,  perhaps,  to  the  stiffness  of  the  great,  high 
boots  which  encumbered  her,  and  which  showed 
conspicuously  below  her  short  petticoat.  A  faded  blue 
sun-bonnet,  with  loosened  strings,  was  thrown  back 
from  her  face,  showing  her  strongly  marked  and 
red-tinged  features.  Under  one  arm  she  carried  a 
bundle  of  clothing ;  and  upon  her  other  shoulder  rested 
a  long  broom  with  a  string  of  tin  cups  and  pans 
pendant  from  it. 

A  crowd  of  boys  pressed  about  her.  "A  witch !  A 
witch!"  they  shouted  gleefully.  "Duck  her  in  the 
pond !" 

The  woman  raised  her  eyes.  "Out  o'  my  way,  boys. 
Let  me  pass  by  yez,"  she  said,  good-naturedly. 

"Ride  on  your  broom,"  called  one  of  the  crowd. 

"Yes,  witch,  ride  your  broom!"  sounded  the 
chorus. 

One  great  hulking  fellow  came  through  the  herd. 
"Ride  your  broom,  woman,"  he  said,  with  an  oath. 
"Ride  it,  or  we'll  soak  you  in  the  ditch !" 

112 


A  Knightly  Deed  and  a  Forewarning 

She  looked  about  nervously.  Her  party,  unmindful 
of  her  absence,  was  half  way  across  the  field.  "Let  me 
pass,"  she  said,  hoarsely.  "This  ain't  no  way  to  treat 
a  woman." 

"Ho !  Hear  the  old  fool !"  guffawed  the  big  fellow. 
"Give  her  a  dose  of  witch's  medicine,  boys !" 

"Go  ahead,  Cantwell !"  answered  the  rabble.  "We're 
with  you !" 

Picking  a  half  brick  from  the  ground  Jake  Cantwell 
hurled  it  at  the  woman.  It  grazed  the  back  of  her 
head,  knocked  off  her  bonnet,  and  was  caught  by  some 
one  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  circle.  The  woman,  pale 
and  trembling,  stood  looking  at  her  persecutors,  her 
eyes  pleading  for  pity  and  her  thin  grey  hair  waving 
about  in  the  cold  breeze. 

With  a  laugh  Cantwell  made  a  move  toward  her, 
holding  a  stout  stick  in  his  uplifted  hand.  "Move 
along,  you  hag!"  he  yelled. 

She  turned  toward  him ;  and,  dropping  her  bundle 
and  the  broom  with  its  rattling  burden,  held  up  her 
hands  to  shield  her  face. 

Drawing  back  the  cudgel  Cantwell  aimed  a  blow  at 
her  head.    A  hand  caught  his  wrist  from  behind. 

"Let  her  alone,  you  brute,"  said  a  deep  voice,  close 
to  his  ear. 

Cantwell,  without  turning,  tried  to  break  from  the 
stranger's  grip.  His  arm  was  forced  back  until  it 
seemed  parting  from  the  shoulder. 

With  a  cry  of  pain  he  dropped  the  club  and  swung 
about.  He  met  the  piercing  eyes  of  Motier  Du  Val, 
and  made  a  quick  step  backward.  A  yell  of  applause 
came  from  the  people  in  the  stands,  fifty  yards  away. 

113 


Wallannah 

Cantwell  turned  pale  with  rage.  "Let  go  my  arm !" 
he  shouted.     "Let  go,  I  say!" 

"You'll  leave  the  woman  alone?" 

"No,  you  fool,  I  won't !" 

The  crowd  of  boys  laughed  in  derision. 

Du  Val's  eyes  flashed  dangerously.  "Coward !"  he 
said,  contemptuously.  "Lay  your  hands  on  her  again 
and  you'll  regret  it."  He  released  Cantwell's  wrist  and 
started  toward  the  woman. 

With  a  muttered  curse  the  big  fellow  struck  at  the 
Frenchman  with  his  heavy  fist.  The  women  in  the 
review-stand  gave  a  little  scream.  The  blow  grazed 
Du  Val's  shoulder. 

The  mob  rushed  in  to  Cantwell's  aid.  Du  Val 
turned  quickly;  his  clenched  hand,  backed  by  his 
powerful  arm,  broke  through  the  ruffian's  guard  as 
through  a  pair  of  straws,  caught  the  man  full  in  the 
chest,  lifted  him  off  his  feet  and  hurled  him  prostrate 
to  the  ground.  A  great  shout  came  from  the 
stands. 

"Roarin'  frogs !"  yelled  a  voice  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  crowd.  "That  feller  a  Frencher!"  And  the  Man 
who  had  sat  on  the  Barrel  in  Simon's  store  dropped 
the  two  bricks  which  he  had  brought  to  Du  Val's  aid. 
"He  don't  need  no  help  from  me,"  he  said,  with  a  quiet 
laugh.    "He's  a  reg'lar  ox-killer." 

Du  Val  stood  for  a  moment  looking  dov/n  at  his 
helpless  adversary.  The  crowd  of  men  and  boys 
rushed  toward  him.  He  looked  up  at  them.  They 
hesitated  a  moment.  One  man  closed  in  and  struck 
at  him.  Du  Val  drove  his  fist  straight  into  the  fellow's 
face.    The  man  went  down  without  a  sound.    Another 

114 


A  Knightly  Deed  and  a  Forewarning 

exultant  shout  rang  across  the  field.  The  rabble  surged 
back.  The  Frenchman  made  a  quick  move  toward 
them ;  they  broke  and  scurried  off  like  a  pack  of 
mongrel  curs. 

With  contempt  in  every  line  of  his  face  Du  Val, 
without  a  word,  turned  his  back  to  his  foes  and 
crossed  to  where  the  old  woman,  in  open-mouthed 
astonishment,  viewed  the  scene.  A  rough-looking 
sailor,  with  black  eyes  and  grizzled  side-whiskers,  stood 
beside  her. 

"You  will  have  no  further  trouble,  my  good 
woman,"  said  Du  Val,  touching  his  hat.  "But  move 
along  quickly." 

"Thank  you,  young  master,"  answered  the  woman, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "You  saved  my  life  that  time. 
I'll  see  you  ag'in  some  day ;  an'  you'll  find  it's  not  old 
Peggy  McFaddin  as  fergits  a  favor.  She  may  pay  it 
back  better'n  you  think.  Good  bye  to  you,  sir ;  an'  God 
bless  you  1" 

"You've  got  my  thanks,  too,"  said  the  sailor,  with 
an  awkward  bow.  "I  runned  back  here  to  help  you, 
but  durn  me  if  you  didn't  lick  the  hull  gang."  And 
the  pair  crossed  the  parade  ground  and  passed  from 
view. 

Du  Val,  brushing  some  dust  from  his  coat-sleeve, 
walked  slowly  toward  the  palace. 

Near  the  middle  of  the  flag-draped  review  stand  a 
party  of  perhaps  a  dozen  people  stood,  watching  with 
interest  the  outcome  of  the  conflict.  These  were  a  part 
of  Governor  Tryon's  social  following,  and  among  them 
were  the  handsomest  women  and  the  ablest  men  in  the 
whole  province. 

115 


Wallannah 

As  Du  Val  walked  across  the  parade  ground,  this 
little  knot  of  spectators  broke  into  a  storm  of  plaudits. 

"Think !    That  quiet  Du  Val !"  exclaimed  one. 

'T  thought  they'd  kill  him,"  said  a  pretty 
light-haired  girl. 

"He  evidently  had  no  fears,"  laughed  another. 

"Your  friend  has  a  cool  head,  Miss  Wake,"  said  a 
young  officer  to  Lady  Tryon's  sister. 

"Indeed  he  has,"  was  the  laughing  response.  "And 
a  strong  arm,  too."  Then,  leaning  toward  a  handsome 
woman  with  dark  eyes  and  white  hair,  "You  have  never 
met  Monsieur  Du  Val,  Mrs.  DeVere?" 

"No,"  answered  the  other,  with  a  smile.  "Have 
you,  Alice?"  she  asked  of  the  light-haired  girl. 

"I  wish  that  I  might,"  responded  the  girl,  with  a 
pretty  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

A  tall,  shapely  woman,  dark-haired  and  dark-eyed, 
looked  down  at  Alice.  "You  shall.  Miss  De  Vere,  if  I 
bring  him  to  you  myself." 

Miss  De  Vere  laughed  musically.  "Really,  Miss 
Creighton,  you  must.     I  like  his  chivalry,  don't  you?" 

The  handsome  woman's  eyes  softened  as  they 
looked  from  beneath  their  long  lashes.  "He'd  fight  no 
sooner  for  a  queen  than  he  did  for  that  poor  woman." 

Mrs.  De  Vere  gave  a  little  cry.  "He's  in  trouble 
again,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  far  side  of  the  field. 

Her  companions,  already  moving  toward  the 
gateway,  stopped  and  looked  after  Du  Val. 

He  was  standing,  facing  those  who  followed  him. 
The  crowd  of  men  and  boys  had  returned,  and  with 
them  was  a  short,  fat  man  dressed  in  black. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  asked  ]\Iiss  Wake. 

ii6 


A  Knightly  Deed  and  a  Forewarning 

"Graball,  the  constable,"  answered  the  man  at  her 
side. 

Miss  Creighton  was  bending  forward,  her  eyes 
looking  eagerly  toward  the  knot  of  men  across  the  field. 
"They  are  arresting  him,"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  strained 
voice. 

"Where  is  young  Cantwell?"  asked  Miss  De  Vere. 
"He  was  the  one  at  fault." 

"A  mile  away  by  this  time,"  answered  Miss  Wake's 
escort.  "He  hardly  cares  to  meet  that  sledge-hammer 
again." 

"There's  something  queer  and  underhanded  in  all 
this,"  said  the  governor's  sister-in-law,  under  her 
breath.  "Take  me  to  the  palace,  Mr.  Macdonald ;  I 
must  see  Governor  Tryon." 

"Take  my  carriage,  Esther,"  said  Mrs.  De  Vere. 
"I'll  go  out  to  Beechwood  with  Mr.  De  Vere  and  Lord 
Durham.    But  you  must  hurry." 

So  Estlier  Wake  and  Macdonald,  with  Miss 
Creighton  entered  "'the  De  Vere  carriage,  and  were 
driven  rapidly  toward  the  palace.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  parade  ground  Du  Val  and  the  sheriff  walked 
slowly  down  toward  Pollock  street,  talking  and 
laughing  with  one  another,  greatly  to  the  v/onderment 
of  the  crowd,  whose  tastes  would  have  been  suited  far 
better  had  the  Frenchman  shown  fight  and  been  clubbed 
into  insensibility.  But,  nevertheless,  Du  Val  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  law. 

The  last  people  to  leave  the  field  were  those  who 
had  come  from  Fawn's  store.  They  walked  slowly 
across  the  level  green,  listening  to  the  enthusiastic 
account  of  the  Man  who  had  sat  on  the  Barrel.  "Here's 


II 


/ 


Wallannah 

where  it  happened,"  he  was  saying,  "right  here  where 
you  see  the  other  feller's  dub.  When  he  hit  that  feller 
Cantwell,  he  punched  'im  out  to  here  —  a  clean  four 
yards;  an'  when  he  caught  Jim  Smedley  in  the  teeth 
he  dropped  'im,  sittin'-down-ways,  over  yonder,  Call 
that  feller  a  Frencher !  Swimmin'  snakes !  He's  North 
Carolina  to  his  toe-nails  —  France  or  no  France !" 

With  a  quick  exclamation  Jenkins,  the  Quaker, 
stooped  and  picked  up  a  paper  which,  rumpled  and 
dirty,  lay  on  the  ground.  He  called  Howell  to  his  side. 
"Open  it,  Rednap,"  he  said,  handing  it  to  him. 

"It's  addressed  to  the  governor,"  said  Howell,  a 
little  stupidly. 

"So  much  the  better.    Open  it." 

Their  companions  had  gone  ahead.  Howell  tore 
open  the  envelope.  The  two  men  bent  over  the  slip  of 
paper  which  fell  out.  "I  can  furnish  your  Excellency. 
Send  to-night  about  ten."  This  was  all  that  it  said,  and 
the  signature  was,  "S.  Fawn." 

The  Quaker  gave- a  low  whistle.  "We  have  read 
of  Simon  the  Pharisee,"  he  said,  with  a  chuckle.  "This 
is  Simon  the  Flypocrite.  Tell  Ross  as  soon  as  you  can. 
'Forewarned,  forearmed,'  you  know." 

"But  what  does  it  mean?  What  can  he  furnish  his 
'Excellency'?" 

"To-night  at  ten  we  shall  see,"  was  the  quiet 
response. 


Ii8 


The  Governor  Does  Some  Plotting 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  Governor  Does  Some  Plotting 

OVERXOR  TRYON  and  his  suite  had 
arrived  at  the  palace  and  were  gathered 
in  the  Grand  Hall  of  Audience.  The 
governor,  resplendent  in  the  uniform  of 
captain-general,  beamed  complacently  upon  the  officers 
gathered  about  him. 

"Your  infantry  is  greatly  improved,  Colonel  Leach," 
he  said,  turning  to  the  one  at  his  right.  Then  smiling 
to  the  left,  "And  your  artillery,  Captain  Moore,  is  not 
a  v/hit  less  deserving  of  praise.  I  count  upon  you  both 
to  do  his  Majesty  the  good  service  which  my  knowledge 
of  3'ou  leads  me  to  expect." 

The  officers  briefly  expressed  their  gratification.  It 
took  no  second  glance  at  their  faces  to  see  that  they 
were  men  whose  lives  were  bound  up  in  their  duty. 

"I  hope  your  Excellency  has  not  been  altogether 
dissatisfied  with  my  Rangers,"  said  a  younger  officer, 
advancing  toward  the  governor. 

"By  no  means.  Captain  Neale.  I  beg  your  pardon, 
if  I  appeared  to  forget  you.  But  the  parade  ground  is 
not  the  place  to  develop  your  good  qualities.  It  will 
take  the  field  itself  to  test  your  efficiency;  for  the 
Rangers  will  need  more  knovs^ledge  of  woodcraft  than 
of  tactics.    The  Regulators  will  hardly  meet  us  in  close 

119 


Wallannah 

formation;  instead,  they  will  fight  from  buslies  and 
from  behind  trees.  In  case  of  ambuscade,  it  is 
principally  upon  you,  Captain  Neale,  and  upon  your 
gallant  Rangers  that  I  shall  rely.  From  my  inspection 
of  your  company  to-day,  I  do  not  fear  disappointment. 
Indeed,  gentlemen  all,  I  shall  take  care  that  his 
Majesty  be  duly  informed  of  your  devotion;  and  I 
promise  that  your  faithful  services  shall  not  go 
*"  unrewarded.  But,  I  am  detaining  you.  Send  in  your 
requisitions  early ;  for  in  a  week  or  two,  at  most,  we 
must  be  ready  to  march  against  these  rebels."  And 
with  a  gracious  wave  of  the  hand,  he  dismissed 
them. 

The  governor,  smiling  to  himself,  crossed  the 
room  and  took  his  place  in  the  executive  chair.  There 
he  sat  for  several  minutes,  and  as  he  sat,  the  smile 
slowly  faded  from  his  eyes.  He  was  thinking  deeply, 
and  the  frown  which  formed  the  wrinkles  between  his 
shaggy  brows  showed  that  his  thoughts  were  not 
pleasant. 

While  he  still  sat  there,  his  chin  resting  upon  his 
gauntleted  right  hand,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
floor,  a  door  half  way  down  the  side  of  the  room 
opened,  and  Esther  Wake,  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her 
eyes  flashing,  entered  the  hall. 

The  governor,  shaking  off  the  cloud  of  his  gloom, 
arose  and  removed  his  plumed  hat.  "Tou jours  la 
bien-venue !  ma  chere  soeur !  —  as  our  friend,  the 
senior  Du  Val,  v/ould  say.  Take  the  place  at  the 
right  of  the  throne,  Esther ;  for  I  am  truly  glad  to  see 
you."  The  captain-general,  taking  her  hand,  led  her 
to  the  chair  beside  his  own.     "Now,  what  is  it,  my 

1 20 


The  Governor  Does  Some  Plotting 

prime  minister?"  he  asked,  cheerfully,  as  he  resumed 
his  seat.  "What  brings  you  here  when  the  tea-cups 
are  rattling  in  my  lady's  boudoir  ?" 

"Trouble,  trouble,  your  Excellency." 

"  'Your  Excellency,'  indeed !  "  he  said,  with  line 
scorn.  "Why  place  a  title  between  us  two?  Why  art 
so  formal,  fair  one?" 

She  smiled  as  she  half  turned  toward  him.  "Why  ?" 
she  repeated,  softly,  resting  her  elbows  on  the  chair 
arm  and  looking  into  his  eyes  over  her  clasped  hands. 
"Because,  your  Excellency,  I  am  here  as  a  loyal  subject 
of  his  Majesty  the  king,  pleading  for  justice  for  our 
junior  visitor  from  the  land  of  Louis  XV." 

"Motier?    Wliat  of  him?" 

"Your  Excellency,  our  protege,  crossing  the  parade 
ground  after  the  review,  found  a  great  brute  of  a 
youth  —  one  Jacob  Cantwell,  your  Excellency  — • 
throwing  stones  at,  and  otherwise  abusing,  a  poor  old 
woman  who  had  landed  from  the  Leopard  but  a  few 
moments  before.  This  Cantwell,  your  Excellency,  was 
about  to  strike  the  woman  with  a  stick  when  our  friend 
Motier  interfered.  This  Cantwell,  your  Excellency, 
struck  at  Motier  and  Motier  knocked  him  down.  Then 
another  man  tried  to  strike  our  friend  and  met  the 
same  fate.  This  Cantwell,  your  Excellency,  escaped ; 
while  Motier  left  the  field  in  the  hands  of  tliat  horrid 
Graball,  the  constable."  She  paused  a  moment  in  her 
speech. 

The  governor  smiled.  "  'And  this  Cantwell,  your 
Excellency,'  "  he  mimicked,  "this  Cantv/ell  is  a  son  of 
good  'Squire  Cantv/ell?" 

She  nodded,  and  a  quick  gleam  came  into  her  eyes. 

121 


Wallannah 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  slowly,  "of  —  good  —  'Squire  — 
Cant  —  well." 

The  captain-general  laughed.  "You  do  not  love 
the  man." 

Esther  gave  a  shudder.  "Ugh!"  she  exclaimed, 
drawing  down  the  corners  of  her  pretty  mouth.  "When 
he  is  near  I  feel  as  though  I  had  put  my  hand  upon  a 
corpse  in  the  dark." 

"Horrible  figure  of  speech,  Esther  —  horrible!" 

"So  is  the  man,  your  Excellency."  Then  imitating 
his  deep  tones,  "Horrible  man,  William  —  horrible !" 

The  governor  crossed  his  knees  and  laughed  loud 
and  long. 

Esther  reached  out  one  hand  and  laid  it  upon  his 
gold-braided  sleeve.  "But  my  justice,  your  Excellency, 
where  is  my  justice?" 

"Your  justice.  Queen  Esther?  But,  what  do  the 
Scriptures  say  about  it?  I  think  it  is,  "Then  said  the 
king  unto  her.  What  wilt  thou.  Queen  Esther?  and 
what  is  thy  request  ?  it  shall  be  even  given  thee  to  the 
half  of  the  kingdom.'    Isn't  that  the  writ?" 

Esther  laughed,  and  a  little  flush  came  to  her  cheeks. 
"  'And  Esther  answered,'  "  she  quoted,  "  Tf  it  seem 
good  unto  the  king,  let  the  king  and  Haman  come  this 
day  unto  the  banquet  that  I  have  prepared  for  him.'  " 

The  captain-general  rose  to  his  feet.  "Be  it  so, 
Esther,"  he  said,  v/ith  a  gleam  of  kindly  humor  in  his 
eyes.  "Prepare  your  feast  if  you  will,  and  Motier  and 
I  will  tea  with  you  before  the  end  of  the  hour.  Have 
I  met  the  situation?" 

"Like  blindfolded  Justice  herself,  your  Excellency. 
And  now  I  must  go  to  make  ready  my  banquet." 

122 


The  Governor  Does  Some  Plotting 

"Come  first  to  the  window  where  we  can  see  our 
view,  while  I  ask  a  question." 

They  crossed  to  one  of  the  deep-seated  windows. 
''You  have  a  woman's  keen  eye,  Esther.  Is  there 
disaffection  in  the  camp?"    He  looked  closely  at  her. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  have  seen  none,  brother. 
Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"Treachery,  black  treachery,  little  woman.  My 
guards,  soon  after  the  review,  seized  a  man  named 
Witten.  He  was  laden  down -with  powder  and  lead. 
Where  did  he  get  it  ?    From  Fawn  ?" 

Again  she  shook  her  head.  "Perhaps ;  but  I  cannot 
think  so.  Simon  Fawn's  aim  is  gold.  It  is  more  to  his 
good  to  please  than  to  antagonize  you.  It  is  to  his 
interest  to  be  loyal;  and  the  insurgents,  you  know, 
cannot  outbid  you ;   they  are  too  poor." 

"Wisely  reasoned,  my  councillor.  You  have  added 
greatly  to  my  debt.    And  now  — " 

"I  must  go,  William,  I  —  How  splendid  you  look 
in  your  uniform.    Can't  you  wear  it  always?" 

"Go  on,  child,"  he  said  laughing,  as  he  felt  the 
blood  rise  to  his  cheeks.    "You'll  make  me  vain  — " 

"Vainer,  your  Excellency,  vainer !"  And,  laughing, 
she  went  from  the  hall,  leaving  the  governor  smiling 
out  of  the  window  and  whistling  softly  to  himself. 

Several  minutes  later  a  knock  sounded  on  the  door, 
and  a  liveried  attendant  entered.  "A  note  from  Lord 
Durham,"  he  said. 

The  governor,  waiting  until  the  door  was  closed, 
returned  again  to  his  seat  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  opening 
the  letter  as  he  walked.  There  were  two  enclosures. 
The  one  from  Lord  Durham  read,  "My  servant  has 

123 


Wallannah 

just  brought  me  the  enclosed  letter  addressed  to  your 
Excellency,  evidently  given  to  him  by  mistake. 
Durham." 

Sitting  down  and  replacing  his  hat,  the  governor 
opened  the  other  envelope,  and  smiled  as  he  read  the 
message  which  it  had  contained;  for  it  was  the  letter 
from  Simon  Fawn,  which,  falling  from  Du  Val's 
pocket,  had  been  picked  up  and  read  by  Howell  and 
-the  Quaker.  The  missive  was  the  same,  but  the 
envelope  was  another,  addressed  by  a  different  hand. 
This,  however,  the  governor  did  not  notice. 

Had  he  known  that  Rednap  Howell's  pen  had 
traced  that  flourished  superscription,  his  Excellency 
Vvould  have  changed  his  plans.  As  it  v/as,  he  only 
slipped  the  note  beneath  his  belt  and  muttered,  "Esther 
was  right.    Fawn  is  to  be  trusted." 

He  touched  a  bell.  The  liveried  attendant  came  to 
his  elbow.  "Ask  my  secretary  to  summon  the  council 
at  once,  to  meet  me  here  when  they  are  together." 

The  governor  turned  to  his  table  and  began  writing. 
After  a  moment  he  looked  up.  The  wondrously  attired 
Indian  boy  stood  before  him. 

"When  did  you  come,  Tonta?  'and  v;hat  do  you 
v/ant  ?" 

"Want  soldier  bring  Caiheek,"  was  the  answer. 

"Caiheek?    You  mean  your  young  master?" 

Tonta  drew  himself  up  proudly.  "No  master,"  he 
said,  quickly.  "Tonta  got  no  master.  Him  Caiheek  — 
in  jail." 

"I've  heard  of  this.  He  will  be  set  free.  You 
may  go." 

And  Tonta  went,  but  not  whither  the  governor 

124 


The  Governor  Does  Some  Plotting 

thought ;  for,  with  a  quick  glance  about  him,  he  slipped 
into  the  private  study  of  the  executive,  a  small  room 
adjoining  the  Hall  of  Audience  and  connected  with  it 
by  a  door. 

Governor  Tryon  resumed  his  writing.  He  had 
finished,  and  was  drying  the  ink  upon  the  sheet  when 
the  door  opened. 

"Mr.  Cantwell,"  announced  the  servant. 

The  governor  looked  up  and  nodded. 

Cantwell,  scrupulously  dressed  in  black  and  bearing 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  entered  the  hall. 

"You  are  prompt,  Mr.  Cantwell,"  remarked  the 
governor,  leaning  back  in  his  chair. 

Cantwell  bowed  profoundly.  "I  am  always  ready 
to  serve  your  Excellency,"  he  said. 

"I  thank  you,"  was  the  governor's  dry  response.  "I 
have  never  doubted  you.  I  only  fear,  Mr.  Cantwell, 
that  at  times  you  may  be  over-zealous  in  your  duty." 

The  justice  looked  up  in  surprise.  "But  vour 
Excellency  would  find  no  fault  with  that." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  Mr.  Cantwell,  For 
instance,"  and  the  governor  bent  forward,  smiling 
grimly,  "you  have  caused,  only  to-day,  a  gentleman 
who  has  come  to  me  from  the  court  of  Louis  XV  to  be 
arrested  by  a  common  constable.  He  is  a  representative 
of  a  foreign  power  and  is  an  honored  guest  of  mine. 
Was  that  a  kindly  service?  Was  that  a  discreet  act, 
Mr.  Cantwell?" 

The  'Squire's  eyes  fell.  "I  am  sorry,"  he  stammered, 
"that  I  did  not  know  this  a  few  hours  earlier.  Your 
Excellency's  orders  were  imperative.  The  civil 
authorities  were  to  co-operate  with  the  military  in 

12$ 


Wallannah 

preserving  order.  This  young  man  was  clearly  guilty 
of  an  affray." 

''Doubtless.  And  you  have  committed  him  ?"  The 
governor's  sm.ile  was  far  from  being  a  pleasant  one. 

"For  want  of  bail,  your  Excellency,  which  he 
would  not  even  try  to  procure.    He's  as  proud  as  — " 

"As  any  Frenchman,"  interrupted  the  governor. 
"Although  our  hereditary  foes,  and  of  late  at  v/ar  with 
us,  we  must  concede  to  the  French  a  delicate  sense  of 
honor.  Besides,  a  stranger,  unknown  even  to  the 
well-informed  'Squire  Cantwell,  might  find  it  difficult 
to  secure  a  bondsman  under  such  circumstances.  It  is, 
indeed,  a  matter  for  the  French  government  to  adjust," 
he  added  carelessly.  "It  may  come  to  that  yet.  But," 
and  his  smile  deepened,  "there  must  needs  be  two 
parties  to  an  affray.  Of  course,  you  committed  the 
other,  also." 

"He  escaped,  your  Excellency." 

"Ah !  That  was  unfortunate.  Your  zeal  should 
have  found  him.    And  who  was  he?" 

"He  —  he  was  —  hum  — " 

"Never  mind,  Mr.  Cantwell,"  the  governor  said, 
sharply.     "I  know  who  it  was." 

The  door  again  opened,  and  in  thunderous  tones 
came  the  announcement,  "Mr.  Rednap  Howell  and 
Captain  James  Hunter." 

"Show  them  into  the  anteroom,"  commanded  the 
governor;  "and  let  them  wait  until  I  ring."  Then  to 
Cantwell,  in  tones  of  confidence  that  completely 
reassured  the  discomfited  magistrate,  "This,  my  good 
'Squire,  is  a  deputation  from  the  Regulators;  they 
bring,    as    their    note    this    morning    informed    me, 

12^    • 


The  Governor  Does  Some  Plotting 

proposals  for  an  amicable  adjustment  of  our  difficulties. 
They  are  bold  rascals,  to  come  to  me  at  such  a  time  on 
such  an  errand.  I  almost  feel  that  my  duty  is  to  detain 
them.  Nous  verrons!  The  interview  will  be  brief.  I 
wish  you  to  remain,  but  not  in  sight.  There  is  a  room 
into  which  you  can  retire  until  they  are  gone.  We  can 
then  finish  our  business,  which,  in  good  truth,  has  been 
already  too  long  delayed." 

Following  the  direction  of  the  governor's  finger 
Cantwell  entered  the  same  chamber  which  harbored 
Tonta,  who  stood  now  behind  a  friendly  curtain.  The 
door  having  been  closed  upon  the  'Squire's  entrance, 
the  Indian  could  not  hear  the  words  which  passed 
between  the  governor  and  the  committeemen;  for  the 
good  'Squire  had  placed  himself  at  the  keyhole. 
However,  there  was  little  to  hear,  for  the  proposals 
were  to  go  before  the  council,  and  the  governor's 
part  was  intermediary.  The  executive's  manner, 
notwithstanding,  was  overbearing  and  threatening.  It 
required  no  decision  of  the  council  to  show  the  futility 
of  all  conciliatory  efforts ;  and  it  is  probable  that  the 
two  Regulators  arrived  at  that  conclusion  long  before 
they  left. 

When  Cantwell  returned  to  the  hall,  he  saw  that  his 
Excellency's  face  was  still  flushed  with  anger.  "The 
impertinence  of  those  fellows !"  he  exclaimed,  hotly. 
"Think,  my  good  Cantwell,  of  their  demanding 
passports  to  protect  them  on  their  way  home  in  case 
of  the  rejection  of  their  precious  proposals.  Passports ! 
Think  of  it !  Passports  for  damned  rebels !  And 
they  appealed  to  my  honor,  claiming  the  rights  of 
belligerents!     Malefactors,  the  whole  of  them;    and 

127 


Wallannah 

these  are  their  ringleaders !  I  told  them  their  security 
depended  upon  themselves,  and  that  the  slightest 
demonstration  would  commit  them.  I  have  taken  the 
liberty  of  sending  them  to  you  for  lodging,  'Squire. 
I  beg  you  to  watch  them  closely.  And,  also,  as  you 
have  Witten  a  prisoner,  see  if  you  can  extort  a 
confession  from  him  implicating  them.  It  would  be 
extremely  convenient  at  this  time." 

Cantwell  fumbled  with  the  lining  of  his  hat. 
"Witten  is  not  a  prisoner,  your  Excellency,"  he  said, 
after  an  embarrassed  pause. 

"He  is  not !"  thundered  the  governor.  "You  surely 
have  not  let  him  go !" 

"He  escaped,  I  grieve  to  say;  or,  rather,  he  was 
rescued.  A  man  mounted  on  a  black  horse,  apparently 
a  passer-by  who  had  attracted  no  suspicion,  dashed  up 
suddenly  and  carried  off  the  prisoner  while  the  guard 
was  taking  him  to  jail." 

"The  devil !"  growled  the  governor,  testily.  "And 
did  they  not  fire  upon  him?" 

"Yes ;   but  too  late  to  do  any  good." 

"The  guard  must  account  to  me  to-night."  The 
governor  began  pacing  up  and  down  the  floor.  "Who 
was  this  horseman?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"No  one  recognized  him.  He  wore  a  slouched  hat 
and  appeared  to  be  disguised." 

"Strange,  very  strange !  Why  was  this  not  reported 
to  me?" 

"It  occurred  just  before  I  came  in,  your  Excellency. 
I  have  had  no  official  notice  of  it." 

"Very  well ;  let  it  pass  for  the  present.  Now, 
'Squire,  we  understand  each  other,  I  think.     I  shall 

128 


The  Governor  Does  Some  Plotting 

expect  Monsieur  Du  Val's  immediate  release.  Good 
day,  sir."  And,  with  something  hke  contempt  in  his 
eyes,  he  watclied  CantweH's  hurried  departure. 

Simon  Fawn  must  have  been  waiting  at  the  door, 
for  he  entered  unannounced  as  Cantwell  passed  out. 

"You  are  playing  a  bold  game,  Mr.  Fawn,"  said  the 
governor,  as  the  merchant  came  before  him.  "It  may  go 
beyond  you.  Are  you  sure  Maynard  has  no  suspicions." 

"Very  sure,  your  Excellency,"  responded  Fawn, 
with  his  pompous  smile.  "I  have  done  the  captain 
many  favors ;  and  the  Regulators,  you  know,  claim  me 
as  a  secret  friend.  They  bring  me  trade,  and  naturally 
I  treat  them  politely." 

"And  take  a  lion's  share  of  their  money,"  remarked 
the  governor,  with  sarcasm. 

"I  must  live,  you  know.  Must  live,  your 
Excellency." 

"You  work,  then,  for  money,  Mr.  Fawn  ?" 

"Not  alone,  your  Excellency.  I  would  serve  his 
Majesty  from  loyalty  alone;  but  if  I  can  find  a  little 
more  in  it,  why,  so  much  the  better." 

"Well,  my  dear  sir,  in  your  present  enterprise  you 
have  both  motives  —  loyalty  and  interest.  Because  of 
his  part  in  the  Whitechurst  murder,  for  Captain 
Maynard,  dead  or  alive,  there  stands  a  reward  of  one 
hundred  pounds  ;  as  for  Herman  Husbands,  if  you  can 
take  him  —  and  his  capture  will  be  quite  as  difficult  as 
the  other  —  you  must  be  satisfied  with  the  gracious 
approbation  of  the  king,  which,  after  all,  may  be  worth 
more  to  you  than  the  other.  You  say  the  appointment 
is  at  eleven  to-night,  and  that  you  are  to  go  alone? 
How  will  you  carry  the  ammunition  ?" 

129 


Wallannah 

"In  a  cart." 

"What!"  The  governor  leaned  forward,  deeply 
interested.  "So  large  a  quantity  as  that?  And  you 
are  paid  in  advance  ?" 

"No,  your  Excellency.  Captain  Maynard  would 
have  suspected  me  had  I  asked  that.  But  if  your 
Excellency  can  so  plan  that  I  will  have  time  to  receive 
the  money  before  Maynard's  capture,  it  would  secure 
me  financially  and  would  cost  you  nothing." 

Tryon  laughed  quietly.  "The  hundred  pounds 
sterling  is  not  enough,  then  ?  No  matter.  As  you  say, 
it  will  cost  us  nothing,  and  would  add  tliat  mu;:h  to 
the  enemy's  disbursements.  I  will  send  you  a  corporal 
and  twenty  men,  to  be  posted  in  the  woods  as  you  may 
direct.  At  some  signal,  which  you  and  the  officer  may 
adopt,  the  men  can  seize  Maynard  and  such  others  as 
may  be  with  him." 

"One  thing,  particularly,  your  Excellency.  I  want 
the  corporal  to  capture  me  also,  to  mislead  Maynard 
and  to  clear  me  of  suspicion.  Otherwise  our  success 
might  come  back  to  my  detriment." 

"You  are  deep,  my  good  sir.  Let  it  be  as  you  will. 
The  corporal  will  report  to  you  between  ten  and 
eleven.  Make  your  own  arrangements.  But  take  them 
all ;  do  not  let  a  man  escape.  Now,  one  question  more : 
does  Maynard  wear  a  slouched  hat  ?" 

"He  does,  sir." 

"And  he  rides  a  black  horse?'* 

"Yes,  your  Excellency." 

"Hm!"  he  muttered,  to  himself.  Then,  rising, 
"That  is  all  now.  If  you  succeed  —  and  you  have  the 
game    in    your    own    hands  —  I    myself     will    add 

130 


The  Governor  Does  Some  Plotting 

something  to  your  reward.  Such  patriotism  as  yours 
deserves  encouragement.  Good  afternoon;  and  —  be 
cautious !" 

Simon  went  out,  his  face  wreathed  in  smiles. 

After  Fawn's  departure  a  messenger  brought  word 
to  the  executive  that  the  council  waited  in  the  anteroom. 
He  summoned  them  to  the  Hall  of  Audience,  and  there 
secured  their  sanction  for  the  carrying  out  of  a 
multitude  of  his  plans. 

A  short  time  after  the  council  had  left,  Motier 
Du  Val,  who  had  been  liberated  by  the  apologetic 
'Squire  Cantwell,  entered  the  hall. 

"Ah !"  exclaimed  the  governor,  rising  and 
advancing  to  meet  him,  "Mon  jeune  ami!  On  vous  a 
fait  mal,  n'est  ce  pas?  et  j'en  suis  bien  fache.  But 
come:  we  will  discuss  that  later.  Les  dames  nous 
attendant.  We  must  not  keep  the  ladies  waiting,  mon 
cher  Motier.  Allons !"  Without  waiting  for  Du  Val's 
reply,  the  governor,  heartily  tired  of  official  duties,  led 
the  way  to  the  parlor  and  to  Esther's  promised  feast. 

No  sooner  was  the  hall  vacant  than  Tonta  emerged 
stealthily  from  the  governor's  study.  "  Take  him 
Cap'n  Maynie!"  he  said,  with  flashing  eyes.  "Take 
bobbasheela!  Tonta  see!"  And  slipping  through  a 
half-opened  window  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall,  he  darted 
across  the  lawn  and  was  lost  to  view  amid  the 
shrubbery. 

For  Captain  Maynard's  life  hung  by  a  single 
thread,  and  that  thread  was  what  the  Indian  had  heard 
when  Fawn  and  the  governor  talked  together  in  the 
Grand  Hall  of  Audience. 


131 


Wallannah 


CHAPTER  XI 

Conscience  and  a  Failure 

|IMON  FAWN,  alone  in  his  counting-room 
on  Pollock  Street,  sat  waiting.  It  was  early 
in  the  night;  the  clock's  stroke  of  nine  still 
rang  in  his  ears ;  and  the  corporal's  guard 
was  not  to  come  until  half-past  ten.  Yet  Fawn,  nervous 
and  anxious,  was  waiting,  as  he  knew  that  he  must 
wait  through  the  ninety  long  minutes  that  stretched 
before  him  like  the  years  that  have  no  end. 

A  wax  candle  burned  on  the  mantel  close  by  the 
Swiss  clock  which  ticked  loudly  in  the  silence.  But 
the  light  was  bad,  thought  Simon,  and  he  snuffed  it. 
The  improvement  seemed  so  slight  that  he  lit  another 
candle  and  placed  it  on  the  opposite  end  of  the  shelf. 

"Now,"  he  muttered,  "the  room  will  be  brighter." 

Vain  imagining !  The  gloom  was  in  Simon's  heart, 
where  the  light  of  candles  could  not  shine. 

He  sat  down  before  the  open  fire  (the  night  was 
damp  and  chilly),  and  bending  forward  with  elbov/s 
upon  his  knees,  he  gazed  musingly  into  the  glowing 
coals.  His  smoothly-shaven  chin  rested  in  his  hands, 
and  for  once  his  light  eyes  ceased  their  restless  shifting. 
The  candle  beams  fell  upon  his  grey  head,  and  the  fire's 
fitful  blazing  cast  queer  lights  and  shadows  across  his 
troubled  face. 

132 


Conscience  and  a  Failure 

Strange  things  did  Simon  see  in  that  fire,  visions 
such  as  come  to  some  men  when,  hopeless,  they  sit  in 
the  darkness  of  the  shadow  of  death.  For  he  had 
betrayed  a  man  whose  confidence  was  his;  and 
treachery  goes  hand  in  hand  with  murder,  so  that  no 
man  can  tell  when  the  one  will  come  to  be  the  other. 

In  his  bitterness  of  spirit  Fawn.grasped  at  the  straw 
that  ever  floats  within  the  reach  of  the  betrayer  and 
the  assassin.  "I  am  right,"  he  whispered  to  himself, 
"for  I  serve  the  king  against  his  enemies.  Who  has 
better  cause?"  But  the  words  stuck  in  his  throat,  for 
Maynard's  face  seemed  to  look  at  him  from  the  fire, 
and  Maynard's  eyes,  dark  and  reproachful,  glowed  in 
the  flickering  coals. 

With  a  hard-flung  oath  Simon  rose  to  his  feet  and 
kicked  the  fire  savagely  with  his  boot.  Then,  standing 
with  his  back  to  the  grate,  he  looked  about  the  room. 

"Pshaw!"  he  said,  finally.  "I'm  a  child,  scared  at 
a  dream,  I  risk  my  reputation,  perhaps  my  life, 
probably  Maynard's  esteem ;  but  what  are  these ! 
Nothing,  as  it  nov/  stands.  I've  hedged  my  way, 
disclosures  are  impossible,  and  I'll  have  the  hundred 
pounds  and  'the  gracious  approbation  of  the  king.' " 
With  a  smale  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  he  crossed  to 
his  book-case.  Pushing  aside  the  crimson  curtain  he 
reached  within;  there  was  a  tinkle  of  glass  against 
glass ;  he  turned  back,  and  in  one  hand  glistened  a 
frail,  thin-stemmed  wine-glass,  while  in  the  other 
rested  a  bottle,  dark  and  dusty. 

He  walked  back  to  the  mantel,  the  floor  creaking 
beneath  his  weight.  Setting  the  glass  in  the  centre  of 
the  shelf  he  drew  the  cork  from  the  bottle.     With  a 

133 


Wallannah 

low  chuckle  he  rested  the  cob-webbed  neck  upon  the 
glass's  crystal  brim. 

But  the  hght  was  still  bad.  He  raised  the  bottle  a 
moment,  and  with  his  left  hand  placed  the  candles  close 
together,  one  to  the  right,  the  other  to  the  left  of  the 
little  glass.  The  light  shone  strongly  upon  his  face, 
gleaming  on  the  low,  unfurrowed  forehead ;  throwing 
the  shadow  of  his  long,  sharp  nose  across  the  skin  of 
his  flaccid  cheek ;  and  playing  with  ruthless  brightness 
about  the  loosely-cut  lines  of  his  weak,  smiling  mouth. 
Again  resting  the  bottle  on  the  edge  of  the  glass,  he 
tipped  it  upward.  With  a  low,  hesitant  gurgle  the 
red  wine  began  to  pour.  The  little  stream  sparkled 
down  the  inside  of  the  glass  and  the  blood-red  tide  rose 
slowly  toward  the  top;  a  final  stifled  gurgle,  and  the 
wine,  sparkling  like  a  monarch's  ruby,  stirred  in  a 
shallowing  whirlpool  beneath  the  light  of  the  candles. 

With  a  grunt  of  satisfaction  Fawn  pushed  in  the 
cork  and  stood  the  bottle  on  the  shelf.  Then,  taking 
the  glass  in  his  hand  he  held  it  between  the  light  and 
his  eyes.  "Fairer  than  the  sard-stone  of  Babylon!"  he 
said,  slowly,  turning  the  stem  between  his  fingers. 
"Brighter  than  a  woman's  eyes !" 

He  raised  the  glass  higher.  'Tn  the  king's  service !" 
he  said,  gayly;  for  the  man  was  drunk  with  his  own 
thoughts.  "All  is  well  when  done  for  the  king.  The 
king's  vintage !  To  the  health  of  the  king !  Long  live 
the  —  " 

The  words  froze  upon  his  lips.     . 

A  thundering  rap  sounded  on  the  door.  The  glass 
fell  from  Simon's  hand  and  was  shattered  on  the 
hearth.     The   untasted   wine,   like  a   ruddy   serpent, 

134 


The  glass  fell  from  Simon's  hand  and  was  shattered 
on  the  hearth. 


Conscience  and  a  Failure 

writhed  across  the  stone.  Trembling,  white,  his  eyes 
staring  with  sudden  terror,  Fawn  stood  in  the  Hght  of 
the  flickering  candles,  his  shaking  hand  still  uplifted, 
the  pallor  of  death  upon  his  parted  lips.  ' 

Again  came  the  deafening  knock. 

Simon  started  toward  the  door.  His  knees  gave 
way  beneath  him,  and  he  sank  into  his  chair.  "Come 
in,"  he  cried,  hoarsely. 

The  door  swung  open,  and  Cantwell  crossed  the 
threshold. 

Fawn  sighed  with  a  great  relief. 

"What's  up,  my  friend?"  asked  Cantwell,  sharply. 
"Sick?" 

"Rather,"  was  the  hesitating  response. 

The  'Squire  crossed  to  the  fire,  drawing  off  his 
gloves  as  he  went.  His  keen  eyes  fell  upon  the 
fragments  of  the  glass  and  the  little  stream  of  wine 
that,  smoking  with  the  heat,  gleamed  upon  the 
hearth-stone.    A  sudden  smile  crossed  his  face. 

"Aha!  my  boy,"  he  said,  with  a  ring  of  satire  in 
his  voice.  "Gone  to  the  bottle,  eh !  Remember,  Simon, 
that  Solomon,  a  far  wiser  man  than  Fawn,  once  said, 
'Look  not  upon  the  wine  when  it  is  red.'  " 

Simon  looked  up  helplessly.  "It  was  the  only 
glass,  John,"  he  said.  "I  was  seized  with  a  vertigo 
and  dropped  it  in  the  pouring." 

Cantwell's  eyes  gleamed  with  mockery.  "Dropped 
the  glass,  yet  placed  the  bottle  carefully  on  the  shelf ! 
Tut !    tut !    Simon  !    That  is  child's  talk." 

Fawn  groaned.  "I  cannot  explain  it,  John,"  he  said, 
weakly,  "everything  was  black  before  me." 

Cantwell,   slapping  his  boot-top  with  his  gloves, 

135 


Wallannah 

gave  a  short  laugh.  "A  vertigo  it  was,  then.  You 
need  bleeding.     I  hope  you  won't  get  it  to-night." 

"To-night!"  shouted  Fawn,  arousing  with  a  start. 
"What  do  3^ou  know  about  to-night?" 

Cantwell  laughed.  "Why,  nothing,  dear  Fawn,"  he 
said,  indifferently.  "Don't  start  up  like  that ;  remember 
the  vertigo.  I  said  'to-night'  simply  to  round  out  my 
sentence.     What's  to  pay  to-night?" 

"The  devil's  to  pay,  that's  what,"  growled  Simon, 
clasping  one  knee  with  his  hands.  "And  you  know  it, 
too,"  he  added,  savagely. 

The  'Squire  smiled,  and  stepping  to  the  side  of 
Simon's  chair,  rested  his  hand  upon  the  merchant's 
shoulder.  "Brace  up,  good  fellow,"  he  said,  cheerily. 
"You  can't  carry  out  your  plans  with  an  inverted 
nervous  system.  Let  me,  like  Isaiah  the  prophet,  'Say 
unto  them  that  are  of  a  fearful  heart.  Be  strong,  fear 
not.'  " 

Simon  looked  up.  "Confound  your  ready-made 
quotations!"  Then  he  laughed.  "But  tell  me,  John, 
what  do  you  know;  and  why  do  you  come  here 
to-night  ?" 

Cantwell  drew  up  a  chair  and  sitting  in  it,  moved 
about  until  he  faced  Fawn.  "I  saw  the  governor  this 
afternoon,  as  you  know ;  and,  having  an  inkling  of  your 
plans,  thought  to  come  and  keep  you  company.  Your 
loyalty  is  praiseworthy,  Simon.  I  shall  do  nothing  to 
spoil  your  program.  But,  faith,  you  would  have  spoiled 
it  yourself  had  you  clung  to  yonder  solace."  And  he 
pointed  to  the  bottle  on  the  mantel-shelf. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  have  come,"  was  Simon's 
response,  though  his  eyes  disagreed  with  his  words. 

136 


Conscience  and  a  Failure 

"You  won't  spoil  my  program,"  he  added,  "because 
you  love  the  other  party  as  little  as  I  do.  But  there's 
no  secret  in  that." 

"Secret  ?  Oh !  no.  But  we  have  the  secrets,  haven't 
we,  Simon?    Magnificent,  superb  secrets!" 

"True  enough,"  answered  the  other,  with  a  smile. 
"But  they're  all  yours,  not  mine.  But,  going  past  that, 
it  seems  unusual  to  see  you  prowling  about  at  this  hour 
with  a  great  cloak  muffled  about  your  ears.  What's  in 
the  wind  ?" 

"Some  of  the  old  business,"  the  'Squire  said,  with  a 
constrained  laugh.  "John  Ross,  Mary's  brother,  is  in 
town.  Worse  even  than  that,  he  is  at  my  house,  and 
I  must  walk  the  streets  until  he  goes." 

"You  have  not  met  him?" 

"No;   nor  will  I.    He'd  know  me  in  the  moment." 

"My  house  is  yours.    Stay  here  until  he  is  gone." 

"I  am  grateful,  Simon ;  and  I  must.  Otherwise  I 
could  hardly  avoid  him.  He  is  lodging  under  my  roof 
as  a  friend  of  Rednap  Howell,  whom  the  governor  — 
I'd  like  to  thrash  him  for  it  —  has  imposed  upon  me  as 
a  guest  to  be  watched  until  this  infernal  embassy  is 
disposed  of.  My  promise  was  to  strive  to  detect  this 
Howell  and  his  friends  in  some  treasonable  act.  But 
treasonable  acts  can  go  to  thunder!  I'm  exiled  until 
the  town  is  clear  of  these  pestilential  Regulators.  It's 
maddening,  too,  for  I  had  a  beautiful  trap  set  for 
Howell.  But  John  Ross  protects  him  from  me  better 
than  a  battery  of  artillery.  The  boy  must  not 
see  me." 

"A  bad  case,  John,"  said  Simon,  shaking  his  head. 
His  composure  had  returned  and  the  red  shone  again 

137 


Wallannah 

upon  his  cheeks.  "I  will  help  you  to  keep  dark  until 
this  unsuspecting  brother  of  yours  leaves  New 
Bern." 

"Tell  me  one  thing,  Simon.  Is  that  man  my 
brother?  Tell  the  truth,  good  friend.  Only  tell  me 
that  he  is  not  my  brother;  that  the  marriage  with 
Mary  Ross  was,  as  I  first  thought  it,  a  sham ;  and  all 
that  you  have  drained  me  of  these  years  shall  still  be 
yours,  to  preserve  the  secret.  Yes,  and  more  too,  if 
you  demand  it." 

"How  much  more?"  asked  Simon,  shrewdly. 

"As  much  as  I  can  pay — enough  for  any  reasonable 
man  —  to  be  paid  at  one  time,  and  to  close  this  terrible 
account  in  full  and  forever." 

Fawn's  head  shook  with  a  plain  negative.  "Nay, 
John,"  he  answered,  "I  cannot  kill  the  goose  that  lays 
the  golden  eggs.  Besides,  I  must  not  tamper  with  the 
truth.  You  have  taught  me  that  lesson.  Remember, 
friend  John,  the  new  motto  you  hung  upon  your  wall 
last  week  reads :  Magna  est  Veritas,  et  prevalebif.  It 
is  a  wise  maxim,  good  John,  and  does  equal  credit  to 
your  head  and  to  your  heart.  So,  let  the  truth  prevail. 
I  am  bad  enough,  it's  true ;  but  when  I  acted  as  priest 
at  your  marriage  with  Mary  Ross,  I  was  provided  with 
a  proper  license  to  legalize  the  ceremony.  This  I  did," 
he  continued,  coolly,  "not  only  as  a  protection  to 
myself,  but  also  to  have  a  hold  on  you  to  help  me  in  the 
time  of  need.  I  gave  you  a  good,  honest  wife,  man; 
you  should  have  thanked  me  for  it.  If  you  failed  to 
appreciate  her,  it  was  your  fault,  and  yours  alone.  I 
knew  nothing  then  of  your  other  schemes." 

"But  I  married  her  as  John  Matthews." 

138 


Conscience  and  a  Failure 

"Well,  what  if  you  did  ?  You  are  John  Matthews, 
the  John  Matthews  who  married  her.  Bill  Jones  would 
have  done  as  well.  Names  simply  establish  identities. 
Your  identity  is  easily  proved  without  the  'Cantwell.' 
Besides,  good  friend,  I  have  procured  certain  affidavits 
which  you  would  scarcely  care  to  contest  in  the  courts. 
No,  no,  John ;  I  was  bad  enough  for  some  things,  but 
not  so  far  down  as  to  ruin  a  poor  girl  for  nothing. 
You'd  better  let  the  legality  of  that  ceremony  rest. 
She  spares  you;  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me. 
The  first  register  wrote  John  Matthews ;  the  second, 
John  M.  Cantwell.  The  alias,  if  discovered,  might 
embarrass  such  a  spotless  gentleman  as  yourself;  but 
you  are  safe  from  me,  as  long  —  " 

"As  long  as  I  pay  for  your  silence  ?" 

"Exactly,  friend  John.  But,  dropping  that,  there's 
one  thing  you  never  told  me.  When  you  went  up  the 
river  before  your  marriage  to  this  Ross  girl,  why  did 
you  pass  as  John  Matthews?  A  mere  romantic  whim, 
you  told  me  at  the  time ;  but  there's  precious  little 
romance  in  your  composition.    Why  was  it?" 

"The  secret  is  not  worth  your  knowing.  There's 
no  money  in  it." 

"Very  well ;  we're  even  on  that.  John  Ross  may  be 
able  to  help  me,  if  I  ever  wish  to  find  it  out." 

"Fawn,  you're  a  —  " 

"Spare  the  compliment,  John;  and  change  the 
subject.  You  wish  to  elude  this  boy,  as  you  called 
him.  Pretty  old  boy,  now.  Thirty,  if  he's  a  day.  He 
has  sharp  eyes,  too.  He  was  in  the  store  to-day  and 
came  so  close  to  recognizing  me  that  I  feared  for  you 
and  your  secret.    He  surely  would  not  forget  you." 

139 


Wallannah 

Cantvvell  paled  a  little.  "He  must  not  see  me,"  he 
said,  with  ill-concealed  agitation.  "I  wonder  what 
brought  him  here.  Can  he  have  found  some  — " 
Cantwell  stopped  short  and  looked  into  the  fire.  His 
face  looked  pinched  and  old.  Then  he  threw  back  his 
head  with  a  harsh  laugh.  "He's  harmless,  I  think ;  but 
he  comes  inconveniently.  I  must  risk  incurring  Tryon's 
disfavor,  and  face  the  wonder  and  scandal  to  result 
from  my  sudden  disappearance;  all  of  this  to  keep 
from  the  recognition  of  this  John  Ross.  I  feel  like  a 
fugitive  —  " 

"  'The  wicked  flee  when  no  man  pursueth !'  "  The 
words,  in  deep,  sonorous  tones,  came  from  the  outside 
of  the  house. 

Fawn  and  Cantwell  sprang  to  their  feet  with  looks 
of  blank  amazement.  Simon  went  to  the  door,  opened 
it  cautiously,  peered  into  the  darkness  for  a  moment, 
then  went  into  the  street.  He  returned  a  moment  later, 
but  without  a  clue  to  point  to  the  identity  of  the  man 
who  had  thundered  the  Scripture  into  their  ears.  In 
the  meantime  the  'Squire,  his  face  bearing  a  look  of 
alarm,  had  sunk  back  into  his  chair. 

"The  street  is  a  public  thoroughfare,"  said  Fawn, 
after  a  long  and  nervous  silence.  *Tt  must  have  been 
the  chance  remark  of  some  passer-by." 

A  quick  rap  at  the  door  brought  both  men  again  to 
their  feet. 

"Who's  there?"  called  Fawn,  facing  the  door. 

"A  detail  from  Captain  Neale." 

Fawn  drew  a  long  breath.    "Come  in,"  he  answered. 

The  door  opened  and  a  large  man  with  heavy 
brown     whiskers     stepped     forward.       He     wore     a 

140 


Conscience  and  a  Failure 

corporal's  uniform  and  saluted  with  military  precision. 
"I  have  orders  from  the  governor,  through  Captain 
Neale,  to  report  to  Mr.  Fawn  with  twenty  men." 

"You  are  early.     Why  did  you  come  so  soon?" 

"His  Excellency  suggested  that  we  come  early, 
that  you  might  post  us  properly  before  the  arrival  of 
the  other  party." 

"Not  a  bad  idea,"  remarked  Fawn,  reflectively. 
"But  still,  it  is  a  departure  from  the  program." 

"The  governor  is  very  exact  in  his  arrangements," 
whispered  Cantwell.  "We  do  not  know  this  man.  Be 
careful." 

The  corporal  did  not  move  a  muscle  of  his  face. 

Fawn  looked  at  him  closely.  "I  am  Mr.  Fawn,"  he 
said,  coldly.     "Did  the  governor  write?" 

"He  did  not;  but  he  sent  this  as  a  safeguard." 
And  he  showed  a  heavy  signet  ring. 

Fawn  turned  to  Cantwell.  "Do  you  know  this 
ring?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  it  is  Governor  Tryon's.  I  saw  it  on  the  table 
in  his  study  this  afternoon." 

"All  right,  corporal,"  said  Fawn,  with  a  smile. 
"Pardon  my  prudence;  but  this  is  a  little  out  of  my 
usual  line.  Make  ready  your  men  and  I  will  meet  you 
outside  in  a  moment." 

Hurriedly  wrapping  himself  in  a  cloak  and  pressing 
a  broad-brimmed  hat  upon  his  head  Fawn  started  for 
the  door.  Checking  himself  a  moment  he  turned  to 
Cantwell. 

"Shall  I  leave  you  here,  John?'* 

"It  would  be  better.    Yes." 

"Wait  for  me  then.    I'll  be  back  in  an  hour."    And 

141 


Wallannah 

the  merchant  slammed  the  door  behind  him  and  went 
into  the  night. 

The  great  woods  were  silent  save  for  the  answering 
calls  of  a  pair  of  night-owls  perched  in  wide-apart  tree 
tops.  Seated  upon  his  cart  Simon  Fawn  waited 
anxiously  for  the  coming  of  Captain  Maynard.  How 
long  the  time  was  he  never  knew;  it  seemed  hours, 
though  it  could  not  have  been  a  score  of  minutes. 

At  last  the  bushes  parted  and  a  dark  figure  loomed 
up  beside  the  merchant's  horse. 

Fawn  gave  a  start.  "Ah!  Captain,  you  surprised 
me." 

"Is  the  ammunition  here?"  asked  Maynard,  curtly. 

"Yes,  in  the  cart.    How  will  you  carry  it?" 

"Leave  that  to  me.  Here  is  your  money.  You 
cannot  count  it  in  the  dark ;  but  I  think  you  can  trust 
me  for  its  correctness." 

"Certainly,  Captain.  My  coming  here  proves  my 
confidence  in  you."  He  carefully  put  the  money  in  his 
pocket. 

"Your  honesty  is  equally  apparent,"  was  Maynard's 
answer.  "Your  devotion  to  the  good  cause  shall  have 
its  reward.  Come,  and  help  me  get  the  ammunition  to 
the  ground." 

For  several  moments  they  worked  in  silence. 

Then  Maynard  spoke.  "There,  we've  finished. 
And,  good  night.  Remember  us  and  our  cause  in  your 
prayers,  good  friend.  'The  effectual  fervent  prayer  of 
a  righteous  man  availeth  much.' " 

Simon  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  face.  But,  as  the 
captain  started  away.  Fawn  coughed  three  times.  The 
thickets  round  about  them  rustled  with  the  rush  of  men. 

142 


Conscience  and  a  Failure 

"Quick  work,  boys !"  cried  the  corporal. 

A  pair  of  strong  arms  encircled  Simon  from  behind, 
and  a  cord  drew  tight  about  his  arms. 

"Easy,  easy,"  whispered  Fawn,  confidentially,  "not 
so  tight.     I'm  Simon  Fawn." 

"Who  cares  a  cuss  who  you  are?"  retorted  the 
taunting  voice  of  his  captor ;  and  the  cord  cut  into  the 
flesh  with  the  strength  of  the  next  pull. 

Simon,  in  wild  astonishment,  tried  to  rise  to  his 
feet.  Some  one  rolled  him  over  and  sat  upon  his 
heaving  chest.  "What's  the  matter?"  the  merchant 
gasped. 

"  'He  that  diggeth  a  pit  shall  fall  into  it.' " 

It  was  the  corporal  who  spoke ;  but  the  voice  was 
changed.  To  Simon's  ears  the  deep  tones  were  like 
those  of  the  Quaker  who  had  smoked  his  pipe  in  Fawn's 
store  that  afternoon. 

Half  an  hour  later  Governor  Tryon  and  a  dozen 
men  rode  down  the  lane  to  the  spot  marked  out  for 
Maynard's  capture.  For  the  governor,  fond  of  setting 
traps,  was  even  more  fond  of  watching  them.  The 
horsemen  halted  in  the  glade  where  the  deed  was  to 
have  been  done.  A  groan  came  from  the  woods  beside 
the  road.  One  of  the  men  held  a  lantern  toward  the 
sound.  Fawn's  round  face  loomed  out  of  the  darkness. 
He  was  fastened  to  a  tree  with  a  dozen  ropes. 

The  governor's  rage  knew  no  bounds.  "Treachery !" 
he  shouted,  hoarsely.  "Damnable  treachery!  Cut  the 
fellow's  bonds  and  see  what  the  idiot  can  tell  of  this." 

The  story  of  the  crestfallen  merchant  was  lucid 
enough  even  for  Governor  Tryon. 

The  executive  turned  his  horse  sharply.     "Fool!" 

143 


Wallannah 

be  hissed  in  Simon's  ear.  "You've  made  a  mess  of  a 
child's  task."  Then,  to  a  man  at  his  side,  "Go  to 
Cantwell's  house  and  arrest  Rednap  Howell  and  James 
Hunter.    Ride  like  the  devil !" 

Then  the  little  party  slowly  filed  back  as  it  had 
come;  and  Fawn,  bruised  and  sore,  his  thoughts  as 
black  as  the  night  about  him,  was  left  alone  to  walk  his 
homeward  way. 

The  officer  who  went  to  Cantwell's  house  found 
neither  Howell  nor  Hunter;  but  one  of  the  'Squire's 
servants  handed  him  a  paper.  Hastily  he  held  it  to  the 
candle-light,  and  scanned  its  roughly-written  words. 

"For  the  governor,"  it  read.  "Try  on,  Tryon,  my 
boy.  You  and  your  Fawn  could  learn  wisdom  from  an 
ass.    We  bear  you  in  our  remembrance." 

The  paper  was  not  signed;  but  the  officer  knew 
the  handwriting.  A  smile  forced  itself  to  his  lips,  but 
gave  place  to  a  look  of  perplexity.  "I  can't  give  this 
thing  to  the  governor,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "He'd 
go  mad  and  rage  forever." 

While  he  thought,  his  hand  drew  too  close  to  the 
candle.  A  little  flame,  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  Howell's 
letter  lay  in  ashes  on  the  floor. 

It  was  an  accident;  but  the  officer  thanked  God 
for  it. 


144 


Beauty,  Love  and  Remorse 


CHAPTER  XII 

Beauty,  Love  and  Remorse 

N  the  night  that  Simon  Fawn  fell  victim  to 
his  own  snare  Motier  Du  Val,  after  reading 
a  few  pages  of  Folard's  Strategy,  went 
down  to  the  parlor  to  seek  Lord  Durham. 
The  viscount,  not  yet  returned  from  the  De  Vere 
mansion,  was,  of  course,  not  to  be  found;  but  Lucille 
Creighton  was. 

The  parlor  was  dark  save  for  the  ruddy  light  that 
came  from  the  logs  burning  in  the  wide  fireplace. 
Within  the  circle  of  this  glow,  dressed  in  soft  amber 
silk,  the  dark-haired  girl,  seated  in  a  great  carved 
chair,  watched  the  tongues  of  flame  that  curled  upward 
and  lost  themselves  in  the  chimney. 

Motier,  advancing  toward  her,  thought  that  woman 
could  never  be  lovelier  than  this.  Indeed,  many  men 
had  thought  the  same;  but  the  women  —  why,  the 
women  all  said  that  Miss  Creighton  was  forward  and 
designing,  that  her  beauty  was  due  more  to  art  than 
to  nature,  and  that  she  dressed  disgustingly,  dressed 
to  look  well  in  the  eyes  of  men,  with  gowns  that  fitted 
too  closely  to  her  figure  and  that  showed  too  much 
bare  shoulder;  that  was  what  the  women  said.  But 
Lucille,  hearing  of  all  this,  laughed,  and  straightway 
cut  her  gowns  lower  and  had  them  shaped  more 
closely  to  the  full  curves  of  her  waist  and  hips. 

145 


Wallannah 

Motier,  as  has  been  said,  thought  her  lovely  as  she 
sat  before  the  fire,  the  lines  of  her  yellow-clad  figure 
standing  out  in  vivid  relief  against  the  dark  mahogany 
background  of  her  gothic  chair.  The  face  which  she 
turned  toward  him  was  aglow  with  pleasure,  her  lips 
parting  in  a  smile  of  singular  sweetness,  her  dark  eyes 
meeting  his  with  a  marvelous  tenderness  in  their 
depths.  A  long  lace  scarf  was  thrown  negligently 
about  her,  and  through  its  interstices  gleamed  the  soft, 
warm  tones  of  her  faultless  neck  and  shoulders.  Her 
arms,  full  and  round  and  firm,  were  bare  to  the  little 
velvet  strap  that  circled  each  shoulder,  and  her  hands 
resting  on  the  widely  parted  arms  of  the  chair,  were 
small  and  soft  and  white. 

Without  a  word  she  followed  him  with  her  gaze 
until  he  bent  over  her  chair.  "You  have  come  in  good 
time,  Motier,  mon  cher,"  she  said,  as  they  clasped 
hands  in  greeting.  "I  wanted  to  see  you,  but  feared 
that  you  and  the  captain-general  would  talk  with 
Esther  until  daybreak." 

"Daybreak !"  laughed  Du  Val,  drawing  up  a  chair 
and  taking  his  place  beside  her.  "I  must  be  up  at 
daybreak,  booted  and  spurred;  for  Tonta  and  I  are 
going  after  a  bear." 

Lucille's  smile  faded  away  and  a  serious  look  came 
into  her  eyes.  "A  bear,  Motier  ?  Haven't  you  enemies 
enough  without  seeking  them  in  the  forests?" 

Du  Val  looked  at  her  quickly.  "Enemies!"  he 
repeated,  with  a  puzzled  look.  "Who  are  my 
enemies  ?" 

"I  know  but  one,  and  he  is  enough  —  the  man 
whom  you  taught  so  good  a  lesson  to-day." 

146 


ThK  pack  which   she  turned  TOWAKli   HIM    WAS  ACJLOW  WITH   PLEASURE. 


Beauty,  Love  and  Remorse 

"Cantwell?"  said  Metier,  laughing  quietly.  "He 
can  do  no  harm." 

Lucille  took  a  slip  of  paper  from  a  fold  of  her  dress. 
"Read  that,"  she  said,  handing  it  toward  him.  "It  was 
given  to  me  while  you  men  were  having  tea  with 
Esther." 

Motier  took  the  note,  and  holding  it  to  the  firelight 
read  it.  Rudely  scrawled  though  it  was,  its  meaning 
was  clear  and  pointed.  "Estiemed  Ladey,"  it  started, 
"Tell  the  young  Man  they  calls  a  frencher  too  look  owt 
fer  that  air  feller  Jake  cantwell.  He  is  a  badd  Man  to 
runn  aginst  and  he  can  handel  a  Sord  better  than  enny 
Man  in  north  carlina.  Jake  sed  when  he  went  owt  the 
prade  groun,  im  going  to  fix  that  feller  if  i  hang  fer  it." 
The  letter  bore  no  signature. 

Du  Val's  smile  was  a  little  grim  as  he  handed  the 
missive  back  to  Lucille.  "At  least,"  he  said,  "I 
have  a  friend,  or  you  an  admirer,  who  offsets  this 
enemy." 

"Who  is  he?"  she  asked,  her  anxiety  unabated.  "He 
signed  no  name." 

"I  do  not  know.  Some  day  I  must  thank  him. 
Who  handed  you  his  letter?" 

"Henry,  his  Excellency's  valet  de  chambre." 

"Where  did  Henry  get  it?" 

"From  a  messenger  whom  he  did  not  know." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  he  wrote  the  thing;  a  friend  in 
need,  you  know."  Then,  crossing  his  knees,  he  sat 
staring  into  the  fire. 

Lucille,  watching  him  closely,  saw  that  his  eyes 
were  cold  and  that  they  glittered  like  polished  steel. 
"What  think  you,  Motier?"  she  asked,  lightly.    "Your 

147 


Wallannah 

eyes  gleam  as  do  the  governor's  when  some  one  says 
'Herman  Husbands.'  " 

Du  Val  laughed.  "I  was  thinking,"  he  answered, 
easily,  "of  our  friend's  statement  that  Cantwell  can 
handle  the  sword.  I  cannot  imagine  the  man  with 
anything  of  higher  grade  than  a  club  in  his  hands." 

"But,  mon  ami,  were  he  to  attack  you  with  a  sword, 
what  would  you  do  ?  You  have  not  been  trained  to  the 
blade." 

He  looked  at  her  with  an  amused  smile.  "You  lived 
in  Paris  something  like  five  years,"  he  said.  "Did  you 
not  hear  of  Louis  La  Bretonne,  once  captain  in  the 
guard  and  later  master  of  fence  in  the  court  of  Charles 
HI  of  Spain?" 

"He  who  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour  said  had  no 
enemies  because  he  had  no  peer  with  the  rapier?" 

"The  same." 

"Did  you  know  him  ?" 

"I  crossed  blades  with  him  twice  a  week  for  three 
years." 

"As  a  pupil?" 

"As  a  pupil." 

Lucille  clasped  her  hands  together  and  laughed. 
"Ma  foi,  Motier !    Cantwell  cannot  fight  you." 

"Cantwell  must  not  fight  me,"  Du  Val  rejoined, 
with  a  short  laugh.  "It  would  be  murder  for  me  to 
have  an  encounter  with  that  fellow.  Some  one  must 
tell  him." 

"Y-yes,"  she  answered,  doubtfully,  "but  who?" 

"I  will,  to-morrow  afternoon.  Now,  my  fair  one, 
let  us  lay  these  matters  aside.  Truly,  Lucille,  you're 
magnificent  to-night!" 

148 


Beauty,  Love  and  Remorse 

Smiling,  she  looked  at  him  through  her  long  lashes. 
"Say  less  and  mean  more,"  she  cautioned.  "You  have 
flattered  so  long  and  so  relentlessly,  Motier,  that  now 
you  cannot  tell  when  you  have  passed  the  line  between 
fact  and  fiction." 

Motier  leaned  back,  his  head  resting  against  the  top 
of  his  chair.  "The  line  between  them?"  he  said, 
turning  his  gaze  upon  her.  "When  applied  to  you,  ma 
chere,  there  is  no  line ;  all  is  fact." 

"There,  I  told  you  so !  You're  blind  even  to  that 
plain,  straight  line.  What  can  one  do  with  such  a  man 
as  you?"  Her  question  ended  with  a  laugh,  and 
Motier,  had  he  been  a  few  years  older,  would  have 
passed  it  by  with  another  laugh. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  parting  of  two  ways ; 
then  took  the  wrong  path.  "What  can  one  do?"  he 
asked,  slowly,  looking  toward  the  fire.  "What  can  one 
do?"  he  repeated.    "One  can  do  much.    Is  it  not  so?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  looking  down,  played  with 
the  ring  upon  her  finger. 

Motier  leaned  slowly  forward,  one  cheek  resting 
upon  his  hand,  his  lips  formed  in  a  half-smile.  The 
fingers  of  his  other  hand  played  a  little  tattoo  on  the 
arm  of  his  chair.  She,  wondering,  watched  him  until, 
after  a  long  minute,  he  turned  his  face  toward  her. 

"You  asked,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
face,  "what  one  could  do  with  such  a  man  as  I.  Let  me 
answer  that  it  all  lies  with  the  'one.'  In  general  I 
should  say  very  little  —  perhaps  nothing ;  but  to 
particularize,  there  is  'one'  who  might  do  much." 

"And  who?"  she  asked,  raising  her  dark  eyes  and 
meeting  his  gaze. 

149 


Wallannah 

"You  would  not  believe  me  if  I  told  you." 

"Well,"  she  said,  laughing  a  response  to  his  smile. 
"Let  me  guess.    You  mean  Esther?" 

"Esther?    No,  Esther  is  a  politician." 

"Miss  De  Vere?"  A  quick  flash  came  to  her  eyes 
as  she  spoke  the  name. 

"I  do  not  know  her." 

"Madamoiselle  in  France?" 

"She  is  married." 

"Then  let  me  amend,  and  say  Madame  in  France." 

"No,  she  uses  hair-dye." 

"Well,  let  me  see.  Sonora,  the  beautiful,  in 
Madrid?" 

"She  is  dead." 

"The  girl  in  Charleston?" 

"A  gay  deceiver;    she  marries  within  the  month." 

"Fve  gone  through  the  list,"  she  said,  with  a  pretty 
shrug.  Then,  leaning  forward  and  resting  one  elbow 
on  the  mahogany  chair-arm,  "I  give  up,  Motier ;  who 
is  she?" 

"The  girl  in  the  amber  silk,"  he  said. 

Lucille's  eyes,  unwavering,  still  looked  into  his. 
She  gave  a  low,  pleased  laugh.  "But  she's  ineligible," 
she  protested.  Their  faces  were  not  two  hand  breadths 
apart,  and  he  felt  her  warm  breath  upon  his  cheek. 
"She,"  Lucille  continued,  "is  a  royalist ;  you  are  a  —  " 

"Royalist,  too,  if  she  is." 

Whitening  a  little,  she  dropped  back  into  her  chair 
and  looked  down  at  the  floor.  Then,  after  a  brief 
moment  she  bent  forward  and  raising  her  eyes  to  the 
fire  clasped  one  rounded  knee  with  her  hands.  The 
change  of  pose  lifted  her  silken  skirt  the  veriest  trifle, 

150 


Beauty,  Love  and  Remorse 

but  still  enough  to  reveal  her  jeweled  yellow  slipper, 
and  above  that  the  round  full  lines  of  her  perfectly 
modeled  ankle.  The  lace  scarf  fell  back  from  her 
shoulders  and  dropped,  forgotten,  to  the  floor,  leaving 
her  shoulders  gleaming  white  in  the  firelight. 

Motier,  startled  for  the  moment  by  her  wondrous 
beauty,  drew  a  quick  breath.  A  soft  Spanish 
exclamation  came  from  his  lips. 

Lucille  heard  him.  She  turned  her  head  slowly 
until  their  eyes  met.  He  smiled,  and  his  answer  came 
in  a  swift  gleam  that  swept  across  her  face.  The  look 
died  away  and  left  her  regarding  him  gravely  and 
questioningly. 

"Lucille,  ma  chere,"  he  said,  bending  toward  her 
and  resting  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  "what 
troubles  the  girl  in  the  amber  silk?" 

"Much,  IMotier,  much,"  was  the  slow  answer.  Then 
with  a  sad  little  smile,  "More  than  you  can  ever  know, 
my  knight." 

IMotier  flushed  a  little  as  she  called  him  that  which 
she  had  called  him  but  once  before,  that  day  in 
Versailles,  two  years  back,  when  he  had  led  her 
through  the  rioting  rabble  safe  to  her  uncle's  house. 

"Beauteous  lady,"  he  responded,  with  playful 
mockery,  "can  thy  knight  do  nothing  for  thee  now  ?" 

"Tell  me,  Motier,"  and  her  voice  sounded  strained 
and  distant.  "You  did  not  mean  it  when  you  said,  a 
'royalist,  too,  if  she  is,'  did  you?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  puzzled  smile.  "Mean  it, 
fair  one!    I  said  it,  did  I  not?" 

"Yes,  but  you  say  so  much  that  you  do  not  mean. 
Did  you  mean,  deep  in  your  heart,  that  you  would  be  a 

151    ' 


Wallannah 

royalist  if  I  were  one  too?    Tell  me  that  it  was  only 
gallantry,  that  you  did  not  mean  it!" 

Motier  saw  nothing  but  her  witching  beauty,  heard 
nothing  but  a  soft  sweet  voice  that  made  siren  music 
in  his  ears.  "I  will  repeat  what  I  said  before,"  he 
insisted,  "and  will  say  more  than  that,  Lucille."  And 
reaching  out  his  hand,  he  laid  it  upon  her  arm,  "I  will 
say,  princess  mine,  that  royaHst  or  insurgent,  I  will  be 
what  you  may  be  —  anything  from  king  to  slave,  so 
long  as  I  know  you  to  stand  upon  the  same  ground 
with  me." 

She  turned  her  head  away  from  him  and  looked 
again  into  the  fire.  Spirit  and  self-possession  were 
slowly  coming  back  to  her  face.  "You  were  not  a 
royalist  in  France,  mon  cher,"  she  said.  "Had  you 
been  one  you  would  never  have  come  to  America." 

"I  am  not  in  France  now,  chere." 

"But  the  cause  of  the  Regulators?  You  lean  that 
way." 

"My  cause  is  yours  and  —  the  king's." 

"You  say  it  earnestly?"  She  was  looking  at  him 
now,  and  the  old  smile  was  creeping  back  to  her  lips. 

"Solemnly,"  he  answered,  unclasping  her  hands  and 
taking  one  of  them  in  his.  "Earnestly  and  solemnly," 
he  said,  as  he  saw  the  strange,  glad  light  in  the  depths 
of  her  eyes.  And  he  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  and 
kissed  it. 

She  let  her  hand  lie  within  his  grasp  for  a  moment, 
then  slowly  withdrew  it.  "It  is  well,  Motier!  A 
royalist  you  are  from  this  moment !"  She  gave  a  soft 
musical  laugh  and  her  face  flushed  with  excitement. 
"The  king's  cause  is  a  righteous  cause,"  she  cried, 

152 


Beauty,  Love  and  Remorse 

merrily.  Then,  raising  her  hand  as  though  holding  a 
glass  between  her  fingers,  she  added,  "Gentlemen,  the 
king!" 

"Long  live  the  king!"  echoed  Du  Val;  and, 
although  they  in  the  parlor  did  not  know  it,  on  the 
self-same  tick  of  the  clock  those  very  words  had  died 
on  the  lips  of  Simon  Fawn. 

They  sat  there  silent  and  motionless,  both  looking 
into  the  fire.  Motier  still  held  her  unresisting  hand, 
and  Lucille  still  seemed  to  feel  the  touch  of  his  lips 
upon  it.  After  a  time  Motier  began  talking  of  the  old 
days  in  Versailles,  when  boy  and  girl  together,  they 
thought  each  other  all  in  all.  From  Versailles  the 
conversation  turned  to  the  one  day  they  had  spent 
together  in  London,  then  by  almost  imperceptible 
degrees  they  came  back  to  the  present. 

When  they  had  finished,  the  hour  was  late  and  the 
fire  had  died  down  to  a  mass  of  whitening  embers. 

"Come,"  said  Lucille,  rising  to  her  feet.  "Let  us  go. 
We  can  say  good-night  in  the  hall." 

Together  they  ascended  the  broad  stairway,  hand 
in  hand,  she  regal  and  stately  in  her  perfect  grace,  he 
proud  of  mien,  with  latent  power  in  his  every  move, 
both  of  an  equal  height  and  both  good  to  look  upon. 
William  Tryon,  governor  of  North  Carolina,  watched 
them  as  they  passed  from  sight,  although  they  knew  it 
not,  and  he  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  a  fairer 
picture  than  those  two  made  as  they  stood  together  on 
the  first  landing.  Yet,  pleasure  was  not  in  William's 
eye  as  he  turned  away  from  that  scene. 

Passing  down  the  long  hallway  the  couple  stopped 
before  her  door.    Motier  bent  his  head  and  whispered 

153 


Wallannah 

his  gfood-night  into  her  ear.  As  he  spoke  his  cheek 
touched  hers.  It  was  only  for  a  brief  second,  but  in 
that  second  Motier's  arm  had  circled  her  shoulders  and 
his  hand  rested  upon  her  further  arm  just  below  the 
little  velvet  strap.  The  light  from  the  sconce  on  the 
wall  shone  dimly  upon  them,  but  still  brightly  enough 
for  him  to  see  the  soft  color  that  rose  to  her  cheeks. 
Her  head  drooped  until  her  brow  reached  his  shoulder. 
Keeping  his  one  arm  about  her,  he  raised  her  face  with 
his  free  hand  until  with  a  sudden  move  she  looked  up. 

She  saw  that  he  was  smiling  tenderly,  more  tenderly 
than  she  had  ever  seen  him  smile  before,  and  with  a 
half-whispered  word  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck 
and  kissed  him  once,  twice,  thrice.  Then  with 
something  that  sounded  like  a  sob  she  turned  swiftly 
and  disappeared  into  her  room. 

Lucille  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  bright  light  of 
her  room,  her  face  pale  and  her  lips  trembling ;  then  a 
low  quivering  moan  came  to  her  lips.  "Motier,"  she 
sobbed,  "what  have  I  done  ?  —  oh !  Motier,  my  knight ! 
I  loved  you  and  I  did  not  know  it !  Why  have  I  done 
this !  Motier,  Motier,  God  forgive  me !  I've  made  you 
call  the  king's  cause  yours !" 

She  looked  at  the  cold,  portrayed  features  of  the 
governor,  high  above  her  mantel,  and  frenziedly  wrung 
her  hands  together.  "He  forced  me  to  it !"  she  cried ; 
*'William  made  me  do  it !  But,"  and  she  staggered  into 
the  middle  of  the  room,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands 
and  her  shoulders  shaking  with  her  hard-drawn  sobs, 
"God  knows,  I  did  not  know  I  loved  you !" 

She  raised  her  head  and  stared  with  great  unseeing 
eyes  at  her  image  in  the  mirror.    "Against  his  reason 

154 


Beauty,  Love  and  Remorse 

and  against  his  honor,"  she  said,  slowly.  Then  with  a 
low,  choking  cry  she  threw  herself  face  down  across 
her  canopied  bed.  "Darling,"  she  sobbed,  "forgive  me, 
for  I  knew  not  what  I  did !" 

But  the  face  of  William  Tryon  looked  down  from 
its  canvas  with  hard,  exultant  eyes. 


fi5S 


Wallannah 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  Hunter  Hunted 

HE  sky  was  reddening  with  the  glow  of  the 
coming  sun  when  Motier  and  Tonta  went 
down  to  the  stables.  John,  the  hostler,  was 
already  there,  and  Du  Val's  blooded  hunter 
and  the  Indian's  pony  were  waiting  outside  the  door. 
Motier  had  been  blessed  with  a  good  night's  sleep, 
and,  naturally,  appeared  in  high  spirits.  The  cool 
morning  air  set  the  blood  to  tingling  in  his  veins,  and, 
exuberant  with  strength  and  vitality,  he  wasted  half  an 
hour  playing  about  the  palace  grounds  with  the 
governor's  deer-hounds.  Once  they  had  him  down  in 
the  grass,  and  when  he  rose  with  four  of  the  great 
fellows  clinging  to  him  he  laughed  and  laughed  again 
as,  matching  his  own  strength  against  theirs,  he  pushed 
them  backward  and  forward  across  the  ground,  and  at 
last  threw  them  in  a  writhing,  growling  heap  on  one 
of  his  Excellency's  newly-spaded  flowerbeds. 

But  Tonta,  Indian  though  he  was,  heard  something 
in  Motier's  ringing  tones  that  made  him  shake  his 
head.  "Caiheek  no  laugh  good,"  he  said  to  himself; 
then  with  a  French  oath  that  came  awkwardly  from  his 
untutored  lips,  "Caiheek  see  too  much  Dark-Eyes.  No 
do  Caiheek  good."  Tonta  may  have  been  right,  there 
was  the  even  chance  that  he  might  be  wrong;,  vet   not 

156 


A  Hunter  Hunted 

only  then,  but  throughout  the  day,  he  saw  that  Motier's 
mind  was  often  far  away  from  the  hunt,  and  that  his 
eyes  were  more  than  once  fixed  upon  the  ground  when 
they  should  have  been  scanning  the  woods  about  them. 
Tonta  did  not  Hke  this;  for  had  he  not  seen  Caiheek 
Lieutenant  in  Charleston  look  that  way  one  night  a 
year  ago,  and  was  not  Caiheek  Lieutenant  found  across 
his  bed  the  next  morning  with  a  little  blue  spot  on  his 
temple  and  a  silver-mounted  pistol  grasped  in  his 
hand  ?  And  the  girl  —  But  that  was  Tonta's  secret. 
He  looked  again  at  Motier.  'Too  much  think,"  he 
muttered  under  his  breath.  "  Dark-Eyes  bad  for 
lieuten't;  bad  for  Caiheek." 

About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  Motier  and 
Tonta,  homeward  bound,  rode  side  by  side  along  the 
bed  of  a  dried-up  forest  stream,  the  Frenchman  sitting 
easily  in  his  saddle,  the  Indian  bobbing  up  and  down 
on  his  stiff-legged  pony.  They  had  found  their  bear, 
and  its  scalp  hung  from  Motier's  belt,  where  it  well 
belonged;  for  Du  Val  had  fought  the  greatest  fight 
of  his  life  in  mastering  Bruin,  having  brought  the  brute 
to  his  death  after  a  rough  and  tumble  conflict  in  which 
the  hunter's  knife  and  the  bear's  teeth  and  claws  were 
the  only  weapons  used.  Motier  had  placed  himself 
in  this  unpleasant  position  by  letting  fly  with  both  his 
rifle  and  his  pistol  at  a  buck  that  swept  past  them  as 
they  sat  by  their  fire  cooking  a  rabbit.  Before  the 
weapons  were  reloaded  the  bear  had  come  upon  the 
scene,  chasing  Tonta  up  a  tree  and  waiting,  with 
flaming  eyes  and  mouth  afoam,  for  Motier's  welcome. 
In  this  the  bear  made  a  grievous  error,  for  Du  Val  was 
over-cordial  and  his  knife-blade  was  keener  even  than 

157 


Wallannah 

the  little  shafts  of  wit  which  he  shot  at  the  bear  when  a 
lull  in  the  fight  gave  him  breath.  Tonta,  sitting 
astride  a  shaking  limb,  cried  repeatedly  for  Motier's 
permission  to  take  a  hand  in  the  fracas,  but  each  time 
met  with  the  injunction,  "Stay  where  you  are :  this  is 
my  guest."  But,  nevertheless,  when  the  time  came,  the 
Indian  removed  the  scalp  and  made  a  post-mortem 
examination  of  the  knife  thrusts.  Then  with  something 
like  a  smile,  he  looked  first  at  the  shaggy  body,  then  at 
Motier's  athletic  figure  and  at  the  keen-edged  knife 
which  the  young  man  held  in  his  hand. 

"Ugh!"  he  grunted,  thrusting  his  finger  into  one 
of  the  jagged  cuts,  "Bear  fool!"  And  that  was  his 
only  comment  on  the  fight. 

Motier  shook  off  the  preoccupied  air  which  had 
secretly  annoyed  the  Indian,  and  the  two,  riding  back 
toward  town,  laughed  and  talked  with  one  another  as 
master  and  servant  seldom  do.  For  Tonta,  although  a 
valet  in  the  pay  of  Motier  and  his  father,  had  given 
proof  of  such  loyalty  that  their  relations  were  those  of 
the  warmest  friendship.  Tonta  was  the  guide  who  had 
led  the  two  Frenchmen  through  the  forests  from 
Charleston  to  New  Bern;  he  had  saved  the  elder 
Du  Val's  life  at  the  fording  of  the  Cape  Fear  River; 
and  he  had  rescued  them  both  from  a  threatened  attack 
by  a  marauding  band  of  Sinnegar  warriors. 

But  despite  all  these  things  Tonta  frequently 
imperilled  his  position  with  the  Du  Vals  by  his 
wholesale  taking  of  other  people's  property.  The 
Indian  was  a  thief  of  unparalleled  ability.  He  stole 
for  the  love  of  stealing,  and  the  greater  the  obstacles 
in  his  way  the  more  ingenious  were  his  efforts  to 

158 


A  Hunter  Hunted 

surmount  them.  Of  this  flaw  in  Tonta's  heathen 
nature  Motier  was  tallying  as  they  wound  down  the 
course  of  the  dry  stream-bed. 

"Tonta,  you'll  ruin  me  yet,"  Du  Val  was  saying, 
with  a  half-repressed  smile.  "What  imp  of  Satan 
possesses  you  to  do  these  things?" 

"White  man  cheat,  Indian  steal,"  was  the  stolid 
reply. 

"Do  I  cheat,  Tonta?" 

"Tonta  no  steal  from  Caiheek." 

"No;  but  what  is  just  as  bad,  you  bring  your 
stolen  goods  to  my  room." 

"Tonta  sorry.    Tonta  love  Caiheek ;  try  be  good." 

"You're  always  saying  that — and  always  forgetting 
it.  But  now  Tonta,  you've  carried  this  thing  too  far. 
If  you  don't  stop  it,  we'll  have  to  part." 

"Sinnegars  try  catch  Caiheek  —  want  kill  —  Tonta 
save  Caiheek." 

"I. remember  that,  Tonta;  and  I'm  grateful  for  it; 
but  why  can't  you  stop  stealing?" 

"Great  Spirit  make  Tonta  steal." 

"How  do  you  prove  that?" 

"Great  Spirit  make  Indian?" 

"Yes." 

"Indian  die?" 

"Yes." 

"Great  Spirit  make  him  die?" 

"Y-yes."  Motier  began  to  see  the  drift  of  the 
argument. 

Tonta  smiled.  "Same  way,"  he  said.  "Great  Spirit 
make  Indian ;  Indian  steal ;  Great  Spirit  make  Indian 
steal.     Good  ?" 


Wallannah 

"Not  bad,"  muttered  Du  Val;  for  he  saw  that 
Tonta's  theology  was  better  than  that  of  eight-tenths 
of  the  world's  theologians.  It  was  simple,  it  was 
plausible,  and,  more  than  these,  its  author  believed  it 
himself. 

Still,  Tonta  was  a  thief ;  and  Motier  went  on  with 
his  arraignment.  "Let's  drop  the  Great  Spirit  for  the 
present,"  he  said,  "if  he  makes  you  steal  he  can  make 
you  stop  stealing.  You  can't  understand  that;  but 
you  can  understand  that  you'll  get  into  trouble  if  some 
one  catches  you  taking  these  things.  Suppose  Mr. 
Fawn  had  caught  you  with  that  knife  yesterday;  you 
would  have  been  in  jail  now.  And  the  watch? 
Suppose  the  governor  had  found  it  in  my  room ;  what 
would  he  have  done?  As  it  was,  I  found  it  hard  to 
explain." 

Tonta  lifted  his  eyebrows,  but  did  not  answer. 

"And  the  governor's  bootjack?  You  wear 
moccasins;   what  do  you  want  with  a  bootjack?" 

"Me  no  want  it  —  me  took  it." 

"Then,  what  of  the  money  you  took  from  Lord 
Durham  ?  You  like  him ;  why  did  you  steal  from 
him?" 

"Great  Heart  give  Tonta  money  —  Tonta  no  want 
it ;  Great  Heart  put  away  —  Tonta  steal  it.  All  good 
now  —  Caiheek  take  back." 

"Yes;  right  enough  there,  for  Lord  Durham 
happens  to  be  your  friend.  But  how  about  those  other 
things:  ten  or  twelve  handkerchiefs,  and  a  drawerful 
of  combs,  and  books,  and  a  razor  —  What  can  you  do 
with  a  razor?  No  more  than  you  could  with  a  bootjack. 
All  these  things  must  be  returned;   but  how?" 

i6o 


5J> 


5'> 


A  Hunter  Hunted 

"Tonta  took  'em ;  Tonta  put  back." 

"Brief  enough,  and  to  the  point ;  but  —  And,  say, 
worst  of  all,  how  on  earth  did  you  get  Lady  Tryon's 
garter?" 

"Lady  on  horse  —  Tonta  hold  stirrup ;  Lady  smile 
Tonta  —  garter  come  down  —  Tonta  get  it." 

Motier's  look  of  astonishment  had  in  it  something 
of  admiration  at  Tonta's  boldness.  "Well,  I  swear !"  he 
exclaimed.  "But  I  can't  return  that  for  you.  What 
have  you  done  with  it  ? 

"Took  him  back." 

"You  did!     How? 

"Door  open  —  look  in  —  see  nobody.  Put  garter 
on  table." 

"I'll  wager  half  my  income  you  stole  something  else 
before  you  came  out." 

"Lady  come  —  Tonta  hide  —  heap  'fraid.  Lady 
stay  long  time  —  'fraid  catch  Tonta  —  hang  like 
Yawhauk.    Bye  bye  lady  sleep  —  Tonta  take  scalp  — " 

"What!"  thundered  Du  Val,  reining  in  his  horse. 
"You  did  what?" 

"Me  take  scalp,"  repeated  Tonta,  quietly.  "See." 
And,  reaching  into  his  hunting  pouch,  he  produced  a 
bunch  of  dark  false  hair. 

"Well,  Tonta,"  said  Motier,  with  a  tone  of  hopeless 
resignation.  "I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  you.  Take 
the  scalp  back  yourself.  No  one  else  can  do  it  for  you. 
Now,  have  you  taken  anything  else  besides  all  this 
stuff?" 

"No  much  —  gov'nor  ring." 

"The  governor's  ring?  Which  one,  the  big  signet 
ring?" 

l6i 


Wallannah 

"Caiheek  say  right." 

"H'm !"  Motier  looked  grave.  "What  did  you  do 
with  the  ring?" 

"Me  save  Cap'n.  Cap'n  good  man  —  Tonta  love 
Cap'n." 

"But  how  did  the  ring  save  him  ?" 

"Tonta  give  ring  to  Great  Heart.  Great  Heart  fix 
Cap'n." 

Motier  was  puzzled,  but  he  asked  no  more  questions 
of  Tonta.  How  could  Lord  Durham,  a  recent  arrival 
from  England,  be  entangled  with  Captain  Maynard,  a 
fugitive  from  justice  hiding  in  the  woods  of  North 
Carolina?  Knowing  nothing  of  the  viscount's  previous 
residence  in  the  province  Du  Val  could  not  penetrate 
the  mystery  of  Durham's  use  of  the  governor's  signet 
ring.  But  he  stowed  the  thought  away  in  his  mind 
for  safe  keeping. 

They  cantered  down  the  brook-bed,  until,  rounding 
a  bend,  they  rode  between  two  high  wooded  banks. 
Before  them  opened  a  broad  sunny  glade  with  bright 
plumaged  birds  darting  hither  and  thither  across  the 
open.  Motier,  riding  a  little  ahead,  turned  back  to 
Tonta.  "Pretty,  isn't  it?"  he  called,  pointing  to  the 
space  ahead  of  them. 

Tonta  turned  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  Motier's 
finger.  Suddenly  he  gave  a  start  and  pulled  back  his 
pony.    "Shoot,  Caiheek!    Yawhauk!" 

With  a  quick  move  Du  Val  pulled  his  horse  upon 
his  haunches.  In  the  same  instant,  jerking  his  pistol 
from  its  holster,  he  fired  point-blank  at  a  head  that 
peered  from  behind  a  tree.  As  he  fired,  a  rifle  ball 
clipped  his  bridle  rein  and  passed  under  his  left  arm. 

162 


A  Hunter  Hunted 

Motier  laughed.  His  horse  had  bolted ;  but  dropping 
the  parted  bridle  he  bent  forward  and  tried  to  catch 
the  rings  on  the  bit  before  the  horse  could  shake  the 
iron  from  his  mouth.  Here,  for  once,  Motier's  careless 
confidence  played  against  him.  Looking  down  at  the 
horse's  head  he  failed  to  see  the  low-limbed  tree  which 
stood  in  their  course.  The  frightened  animal  passed 
safely  beneath  it;  but  Motier,  raising  his  head  as  he 
caught  the  bit-rings  in  his  fingers,  struck  a  great 
knotted  limb  with  his  forehead  and  was  thrown  heavily 
to  the  ground.  The  horse  dashed  on  thrpugh  the 
forest. 

Tonta,  riding  close  behind,  pulled  back  his  pony 
and,  tumbling  to  the  ground,  bent  over  the  senseless 
Frenchman.  He  saw  the  cut  across  his  forehead,  saw 
the  blood  oozing  from  it,  held  his  hand  over  Motier's 
mouth  and  felt  no  breath  from  it,  then  sitting 
cross-legged  beside  his  Caiheek  he  began  rocking 
backward  and  forward  and  wailing  with  grief. 

"Stop  your  noise,  boy !"  sounded  a  deep  voice  at  his 
side.    "Let  me  see  your  master." 

Tonta  sprang  to  his  feet. 

He  who  had  spoken  was  a  tall  man,  his  features 
half  hidden  by  a  broad  slouched  hat  and  his  form 
enveloped  in  a  light  grey  cloak  that  nearly  swept  the 
ground. 

Tonta  held  out  a  greasy  hand.  "Bobbasheelah  save 
him  Caiheek,"  he  said,  joyfully.  "Cap'n  say  Caiheek 
no  dead?" 

Maynard  bent  over  Du  Val's  prostrate  figure.  His 
fingers  slipped  about  his  wrist  and  his  other  hand  felt 
the  cut  upon  the  forehead.     "Your  Caiheek  is  alive," 

163 


Wallannah 

he  said,  at  last;   "but  take  your  cup  and  bring  some 
water."  ' 

Taking  Motier's  rifle  Tonta  ran  back  to  the  spring 
which  bubbled  from  the  ground  near  the  spot  where 
the  rifleman  had  ambushed  Du  Val.  When  he  returned 
he  handed  the  filled  cup  to  Maynard. 

After  the  captain  had  forced  some  water  between 
Motier's  lip  and  had  bathed  his  gaping  wound  he 
turned  to  the  Indian.  "Now,  Tonta,"  he  said,  "you  — 
But  what's  that  ?" 

Tonta  held  out  a  blood-stained  handkerchief. 

Captain  Maynard  took  it  in  his  hand.  "Where  did 
you  get  this  ?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"By  tree  —  Yawhauk  shoot  Caiheek." 

Maynard  turned  the  handkerchief  until  the  initials 
on  its  border  were  right  side  up.  Then  a  quick,  fierce 
light  came  into  his  eyes.  The  letters  were  J.  C.  C,  and 
he  knew  that  J.  C.  C.  —  He  looked  up.  "From  what 
I  have  heard  of  this  Du  Val,"  he  said,  under  his  breath, 
"if  he  lives  through  this  I  should  hate  to  give  a  farthing 
for  the  life  of  J.  C.  C.  And  if  the  boy  dies  —  " 
Maynard  laughed,  but  the  sound  seemed  to  Tonta  like 
the  growl  of  an  angry  panther.  Maynard's  eyes  were 
merciless  and  his  lips  curled  as  had  Motier's  when  he 
smiled  into  J.  C.  C.'s  rifle-barrel. 

But  the  fates  were  spinning  their  threads;  for 
J.  C.  C.  might  well  have  stood  for  Jacob  Creamly 
Cantwell. 


164 


A  Cracked  Skull  and  a  Victory 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  Cracked  Skull,  and  a  Victory 

N  the  broad  veranda  of  the  De  Vere  mansion 
at  Beechwood  stood  Captain  Maynard  and 
Mr,  De  Vere.  The  officer's  horse,  tied  to  a 
tree  on  the  front  lawn,  was  breathing 
heavily,  and  Maynard's  face  was  still  flushed  with  his 
hard  riding.  Back  of  the  house,  browsing  in  the  long 
grass,  were  Tonta's  pony  and  Doctor  Ignatius  Boggs' 
bay  mare.  Somewhere  between  Beechwood  and  the 
governor's  palace  Du  Val's  Fleetfoot  with  Tonta  on  his 
back  was  tearing  over  the  road  with  a  summons  for  the 
senior  Du  Val  to  hasten  to  his  son's  bedside,  and  for 
Lord  Durham  to  come  to  the  De  Vere  house  to  meet 
Captain  Maynard. 

Mr.  De  Vere,  a  man  with  refinement  in  every  line 
of  his  delicate  features,  turned  the  conversation  to 
Motier,  whom  Maynard  and  Dr,  Boggs  had  brought  to 
the  house  but  a  few  minutes  before.  'T  fear,"  he  said, 
concernedly,  "that  the  boy  is  dangerously  injured. 
Boggs  seems  much  disturbed  at  his  present  symptoms 
and  for  some  reason  is  withholding  his  opinion.  But 
what  shall  we  tell  M'sieur  Du  Val  about  the  accident  ?" 
"Tell  him  all  about  the  accident,"  answered 
Maynard,  "except  its  indirect  cause.  He  could  do  no 
good  with  Jacob  Cantwell,  and  his  peace  of  mind  would 

;i65 


Wallannah 

be  secured  far  better  if  he  knew  nothing  of  his  son's 
enemy.  If  the  young  man  Hves,  Cantwell's  chances 
are  very  sHght ;  if  he  dies,  the  situation  will  still  be  the 
same." 

De  Vere's  face  was  troubled.  "But  the  law,  my 
dear  Captain?"  he  said,  rather  weakly.  "Why  not 
arrest  this  Cantwell  and  hold  him  pending  young 
Du  Val's  recovery?    That  seems  the  proper  way." 

"Do  you  know  Cantwell's  father — the  magistrate?" 

"No ;  but  I  have  heard  that  he  is  a  good  man,  true 
to  the  law  and  to  his  judgment  of  the  right  and  the 
wrong." 

"If  you  have  heard  these  things,"  responded 
Maynard,  with  some  bitterness,  "apply  them  in  the 
negative  and  act  accordingly." 

De  Vere  looked  puzzled.  "But,"  he  pleaded, 
anxiously,  "you  don't  mean  to  carry  on  this  matter 
outside  of  the  law?" 

"I  do,"  was  the  quiet  response, 

"And  punish  the  man  yourself?" 

"Unless  Motier  Du  Val  lives  to  relieve  me  of  the 
trouble." 

"But  what  could  he  do  ?"  , 

"I  know  this  Du  Val  as  little  as  you  do ;  but  if  his 
face  does  not  belie  him,  Cantwell  will  have  to  pay  the 
bill  in  full." 

Mr.  De  Vere  caught  the  significance  of  Maynard's 
words,  and  he  gave  a  little  shudder.  "I'm  afraid,"  he 
said,  helplessly,  "that  these  things  are  a  little  out  of 
my  sphere.    The  law  seems  to  me  to  —  " 

"But  you  are  not  Motier  Du  Val,"  interrupted  the 
captain,  smiling;  "neither  are  you  William  Maynard. 

i66 


A  Cracked  Skull  and  a  Victory 

When  we  know  we  are  right  we  act  first  and  consult 
the  king's  law  afterward." 

"Well,  please  don't  discuss  that  with  me  any  more," 
answered  De  Vere,  nervously.  "I  am  not  a  man  of 
action  and  I  don't  care  to  be  drawn  into  such  bold 
undertakings  as  you  younger  men  devise." 

"Don't  worry,  my  good  friend,"  returned  Maynard, 
placing  his  hand  on  the  other's  frail  shoulder.  "We 
won't  involve  you  in  any  of  our  plots.  We'll  reserve 
you  for  our  diplomatic  service." 

Mr.  De  Vere  smiled,  for  his  hobby  was  diplomacy, 
which  he  imagined  he  had  mastered.  True,  he 
possessed  some  such  talent,  but  this,  like  his  physique, 
was  weak  and  nervous.  He  kept  his  adversaries  in 
good  humor  by  a  system  of  lavish  flattery  and  frequent 
apology.  Dreading  friction,  he  avoided  quarrels,  even 
when  his  attitude  was  self-abasing  and  detrimental  to 
his  best  interests.  In  other  words,  he  feared  men's 
anger  more  than  he  respected  his  own  opinions, 
deferring  and  conciliating  when  one  stronger  than  he 
would  have  resented  and  fought  to  the  death. 

Maynard  looked  at  his  watch.  "Tonta  has  just 
reached  the  palace,"  he  said.  "If  he  can  find  Durham 
and  bring  him  here  I  can  leave  at  seven.    But  Ross  —  " 

A  servant  came  from  the  house.  "Mr.  Ross,  in  the 
reception-room,"  he  announced. 

"Excuse  me,  De  Vere,"  the  captain  said,  bowing  to 
the  older  man.  "My  friend  awaits  me.  See  if  you  can 
extort  some  opinion  from  the  doctor  before  the  senior 
Du  Val  comes." 

Ross  arose  as  Maynard  entered  the  room.  The 
captain  extended  his  hand.    "Sit  down,  Ross,"  he  said, 

167 


Wallannah 
in  a  low  tone,  "and  tell  me  where  Husbands  and  the 


men  are." 


"Husbands,  with  twenty  men,  is  in  the  woods 
beyond  the  road,"  answered  Ross,  "Hunter  and 
Howell  are  between  here  and  Hillsborough,  and  have 
communicated  with  Husbands  as  late  as  last  night." 

"Does  Husbands  expect  to  stay  in  his  present 
position  until  I  join  him?" 

"He  will  wait  until  nightfall  for  you." 

"What  are  your  plans?" 

"I  expect  to  go  home  to-night,  unless  — "  He 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  looked  at  Maynard.  "Unless 
something  happens  to  keep  me  in  New  Bern."  he 
continued. 

"Something  personal  ?" 

"Very." 

Maynard  smiled  a  little.  "Well,"  he  said,  rising  to 
his  feet,  "tell  Husbands  to  keep  within  earshot.  If  I 
need  help  I'll  give  the  owl  call." 

John,  leaving  the  reception-room,  sent  word  to  his 
sister  Mary,  who  for  years  past  had  been  a  member  of 
the  De  Vere  household,  and  asked  for  an  interview 
with  her. 

Mary  came  down  as  soon  as  Mrs.  De  Vere  could 
relieve  her  from  attendance  upon  Motier.  Taking 
John  to  her  room,  Mary  opened  the  conversation. 
"John,"  she  asked,  anxiously,  "you're  not  involved 
with  those  Regulators,  are  you?  I  heard  the  footman 
say  that  you  and  Captain  Maynard  were  having  a 
consultation  in  the  parlor." 

"So  we  were,  sister  —  in  the  reception-room,"  was 
John's  good-humored  answer;  "and  to  take  up  your 

i68 


A  Cracked  Skull  and  a  Victory- 
question,  perhaps  I  am  'involved  with  those 
Regulators.'  It  looks  like  it,  anyway.  I  helped  them 
to  capture  some  of  the  governor's  powder  last  night, 
and  I'm  here  this  afternoon  to  keep  Captain  Maynard 
from  being  gobbled  up  by  the  royal  troops.  He  seems 
to  like  hanging  around  the  lions'  den ;  and  he  keeps 
us  on  pins  and  needles  half  the  time.  But,"  he 
continued,  more  seriously,  "there's  another  matter  I 
want  to  ask  you  about.  While  we  were  beating  around 
the  woods  last  night  Herman  Husbands  asked  me  if  I 
knew  'Squire  Cantwell.  I  said,  'No.'  Husbands 
laughed  and  said  that  Cantwell  knew  me ;  that  passing 
by  Fawn's  store  at  ten  o'clock  last  night  he  heard 
Cantwell  say  that  he  didn't  want  me  to  meet  him. 
Now,  you've  lived  down  here  nearly  fifteen  years  and 
know  the  New  Bern  people  better  than  I  do.  Is  there 
any  reason  why  Cantwell  should  wish  to  avoid 
me?" 

Mary,  her  face  pale  and  drawn,  looked  out  of  the 
window.  "It  is  hard  to  tell,  John,"  she  answered. 
"  'Squire  Cantwell  is  a  very  peculiar  man :  he  may 
have  some  little  dislike,  some  fancied  reason  for  not 
caring  to  meet  you.  I  really  would  pay  no  attention 
to  him." 

John  laughed.  "Well,"  he  said,  "perhaps  you're 
right;    but  I'll  hunt  him  up  to-night  and  see." 

Mary  turned  quickly.  "Oh !  John,"  she  cried,  with 
visible  excitement,  "don't  go!  Don't  go  near  that 
man !  He  —  "  She  stopped  suddenly,  and  her  glance 
fell  to  her  apron. 

"He  —  what?"  asked  John  curiously ;  for  he  could 
not  understand  Mary's  agitation. 

169 


Wallannah 

"He  —  I  cannot  tell  you,  John ;  but  you  must  not 
go  near  him!" 

John  gave  a  low  whistle.  "I  can't  see  why  this 
business  should  disturb  you,  sister,"  he  said,  kindly. 
"I  want  to  please  you ;  but,  honestly,  I  don't  see  why 
you  ask  me  to  keep  away  from  this  fellow.  What  is  he 
to  you?" 

"It  is  nothing,  John,"  she  said,  with  an  effort  at 
self-control.  "But  I  have  a  presentiment  that  you  and 
he  ought  not  to  meet.  Won't  you  promise  me  to  leave 
him  alone?" 

John  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  answered,  firmly. 
"I  can't  let  a  presentiment  come  in  my  way  in  this 
matter.  There's  a  mystery  in  it  somewhere.  I  will 
fathom  it  to-night."  Then,  kissing  her  good-bye,  he 
left  the  house  and,  making  a  long  detour,  was 
swallowed  up  by  the  woods. 

Mary,  alone  in  her  room,  prayed  that  Cantwell  and 
her  brother  might  never  meet.  She  had  made  a 
misstep  when  she  withheld  her  secret  from  John.  Had 
she  told  her  brother  that  Cantwell  was  the  John 
Matthews  who  had  deserted  her  seventeen  years  before, 
the  situation  would  have  been  greatly  improved.  For 
John  would  then  have  gone  to  Cantwell  in  hot  blood 
and  would  have  shot  him  without  the  formality  of 
argument.  This  would  have  ended  the  matter  with 
more  satisfaction  to  Ross,  and  with  less  future  trouble 
for  Cantwell. 

When  Captain  Maynard  returned  to  the  veranda  he 
found  that  Ahce  De  Vere  had  joined  her  father  and 
that  the  two  sat  together  on  a  rustic  bench  where  the 
sun's  parting  rays  shone  upon  them. 

170 


A  Cracked  Skull  and  a  Victory 

"Ah!  Alice,"  said  the  captain,  drawing  up  a  chair 
and  seating  himself  in  front  of  them.  "You're  a  good 
angel  to  come  to  us  old  fellows  and  brighten  our 
moss-grown  hearts.     How  is  your  patient  now?" 

"Dr.  Boggs  says  that  reaction  will  have  to  set  in 
before  he  can  tell,"  said  Alice,  a  far-away  look  in  her 
blue  eyes.  "He  says —  What  did  he  say,  father?  I 
can't  remember  those  hideous  words." 

De  Vere  smiled.  "He  said,  Maynard,  that  he 
cannot  tell  how  the  boy  is  until  he  rallies  from  the 
comatose  state  in  which  he  now  is.  He  speaks  of  a 
depression  of  the  skull  at  the  upper  suture  of  the 
temporal  bone,  and  fears  pressure  on  the  brain," 

"H'm!"  muttered  Maynard.     "Bad  case,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes.     Boggs  expects  to  operate  to-morrow." 

They  were  silent  for  several  minutes. 

"Alice,"  said  Maynard,  at  last.  "I  heard  that  you 
saw  the  governor's  grand  review  yesterday.  What  did 
you  think  of  it?" 

Miss  De  Vere,  brushing  back  a  golden  ringlet  from 
her  temple,  laughed.  "Magnificent,"  she  answered, 
sarcastically.  "It  gave  his  Excellency  a  splendid 
opportunity  for  self-display.  King  George  could  have 
carried  no  higher  head." 

"True  enough,"  assented  the  officer,  with  a  smile. 
"But  how  did  you  like  the  after-play?" 

"The  after-play  ?  Oh  !  yes.  You  mean  the  fight  ? 
That  was  grand  !     Poor  fellow !" 

"Which  one?"  laughed  Maynard. 

"Ours  — Mr.  Du  Val,  I  mean." 

"Ah!  'ours'  already,  eh?  Well,  Alice,  he  seems 
well  fitted  for  a  beau  ideal.    Think  so?" 

171 


Wallannah 

"Why,  Captain!  You  talk  so  lightly:  the  poor 
man  may  die  before  night." 

"No,  indeed,  my  child.  He  won't  die  —  at  least, 
not  yet;  he  has  too  much  to  live  for." 

"Too  much  to  live  for?"  repeated  Alice,  looking 
closely  at  him.    "Has  he  more  than  any  one  else  ?" 

"Why,  yes !  Golden  Head,"  he  answered,  playfully. 
"He  has  yet  to  meet  you." 

"Oh!  Captain."  Alice's  face  had  flushed  a  little. 
"You  do  say  such  ridiculous  things.  I  thought  you 
were  speaking  of  Miss  Creighton." 

The  captain  looked  up.  "Miss  Creighton?"  he 
repeated,  quickly.    "Who  is  Miss  Creighton?" 

"A  guest  at  the  palace,  and  a  distant  relative  of 
the  governor.  She  came  here  from  the  South,  but 
originally  from  England." 

"Her  first  name?" 

"Lucille." 

"Ah!" 

Alice  looked  at  Maynard  with  a  queer  little  smile. 
"Do  you  know  her?"  she  asked,  innocently  enough — to 
all  appearances. 

"I  knew  her  in  Charleston,"  he  answered,  slowly. 
"She  is  beautiful,  as  I  remember;  tall  and  dark,  with 
wonderful  personal  magnetism." 

Alice  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  said,  coldly.  "She's  the 
one.    Mr.  Du  Val  is  said  to  be  greatly  attached  to  her." 

Maynard  said  something  under  his  breath,  "He  is, 
eh?"  he  said,  a  queer  look  crossing  his  face.  "Mr. 
De  Vere,  you've  heard  of  Lieutenant  John  —  "  The 
captain  gave  a  quick  jerk  of  the  head.  The  hoot  of  an 
owl  came  faintly  from  the  woods  to  the  rear  of  the 

172 


A  Cracked  Skull  and  a  Victory- 
house.     "Excuse  me,"  said  Maynard,  quickly.     And 
rushing  past  them  he  darted  into  the  hall. 

But  Alice  wanted  to  hear  what  the  name  of 
Lieutenant  John  —  whoever-he-was  —  had  to  do  with 
Lucille  Creighton. 

Captain  Maynard  ran  through  the  long  hallway  to 
the  back  of  the  house.  Nearing  the  door,  he  heard  the 
tramp  of  horses'  hoofs.  "My  men !"  he  muttered  with 
a  frown.  "Why  in  thunder  didn't  they  stay  where  they 
were  ?" 

He  reached  for  the  knob,  but  the  door  opened  in  his 
face.  "What  does  this —  Ah!  Captain,"  he  said, 
gayly.  "Pray  walk  in!"  For  Captain  Neale,  of  the 
governor's  Rangers,  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  Captain 
Neale's  great  horse-pistol  was  thrust  under  Maynard's 
nose. 

The  intruder  smiled  grimly.  "Captain  Maynard," 
he  said,  "I  arrest  you  in  the  king's  name." 

Maynard  smiled  into  the  muzzle  of  the  pistol. 
"What's  in  a  name?"  he  laughed.  "This  artillery  does 
the  work;  the  king's  name  scares  me  as  little  as 
anything  on  earth." 

"We  won't  argue  that,"  was  the  curt  response. 
"My  orders  are  to  take  you  —  " 

"Dead  or  alive?" 

"Yes." 

"And  if  I  don't  surrender?" 

"I  must  shoot." 

"Well  said,  Captain ;  but  I  doubt  if  a  brave  officer 
would  disgrace  his  epaulettes  by  shooting  even  an 
enemy  in  cold  blood.  It  shows  a  lack  of  principle, 
you  —  " 

173 


Wallannah 

"Do  you  surrender?"  shouted  Neale,  pushing  his 
pistol  closer  to  Maynard's  face;  for  he  saw  that  the 
prisoner  was  playing  desperately  for  time. 

"Bah!  Captain,"  said  the  other,  with  a  shrug. 
"Your  pistol  has  a  vile  smell.  Why  don't  you  take  it 
down  to  the  river  and  scrub  out  the  barrel  ?" 

"Do  you  surrender  ?"  roared  out  Neale. 

"Well,  seeing  I  have  you  to  deal  with,  I  might 
consider  it." 

"Here,  here!  What  does  this  mean?"  sounded 
De  Vere's  querulous  voice  through  the  hall.  "Officer, 
you  entered  my  house  unannounced !  Apologize,  sir !" 
But,  De  Vere,  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  captain's 
pistol,  scurried  back  to  his  lair ;  for  he  was  not  a  man 
of  action. 

The  door  at  IMaynard's  side  opened  a  scant  two 
inches.  The  end  of  a  pistol  barrel  poked  through  the 
opening. 

Neale's  hand  began  to  tremble.  "Surrender!  Or, 
by  —  " 

"Oh !  no  you  won't.  Move  a  finger  and  the  pistol 
you  see  in  this  door  will  blow  your  soul  to  —  to  — 
Hillsborough !  Tonta,  come  out  and  see  the  gentleman ; 
but  keep  your  pistol  at  his  ear.  Now,  Captain,  your 
weapons,  please.  Thanks!  No,  no,  don't  call  your 
men.    You  have  ten  and  I  a  hundred.    Hear  them  ?" 

A  thunder  of  shouts  intermingled  with  a  few 
scattered  shots  told  what  was  happening  outside.  It 
ended  in  a  babble  of  many  voices,  all  talking  at  once. 

Neale,  utterly  discomfited,  maintained  a  surly 
silence. 

'Come  on,  Captain,"  said  Maynard,  linking  his 

174 


*'t 


A  Cracked  Skull  and  a  Victory 

left  arm  in  the  captain's  right.  "Give  me  your  pistol, 
Tonta.  Now,  Captain  mine,  let's  step  outside  and  look 
at  the  weather." 

They  went  through  the  doorway.  The  twilight 
was  close  into  the  night,  but  the  grey  afterglow  was 
bright  enough  for  Neale  to  see  his  men,  disarmed  and 
disheartened,  in  the  enemy's  gracious  hands. 

"Now,  Captain,"  said  Maynard,  as,  still  arm  in  arm, 
they  entered  the  house.  "Let's  go  into  this  little  room. 
Tonta,  boy,  light  a  candle.  There,  that's  better.  Now, 
Captain,  here's  a  table,  and  pen  and  ink  and  paper. 
Let  me  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I  will  release  you  now 
and  give  you  a  pass  through  my  lines"  —  all  Maynard's 
lines  were  congregated  in  the  backyard ;  but  Neale  did 
not  know  it  —  "if  you  promise  to  delay  your  report  to 
the  governor  until  to-morrow  night.  Mind  you,  I'm 
not  asking  a  favor :  I'm  granting  one.  What  do  you 
say?" 

Neale  raised  his  head  stiffly.  "No,"  he  answered, 
shortly.  "A  king's  officer  cannot  recognize  any  offer 
made  by  an  outlaw." 

"As  you  will,"  retorted  Maynard,  with  an  easy 
laugh.    "Husbands !"  he  called. 

"Sir !"  answered  the  deep  voice  of  the  Quaker. 

"Captain  Neale  is  our  prisoner.    Take  him." 

Husbands  came  forward,  a  long  rope  in  his  hands. 
"Fast  bind,  fast  find,"  he  said,  with  a  chuckle.  "Iveep 
your  protests  to  yourself,  Captain  dear."  And  with 
a  few  deft  turns  he  bound  the  captive's  hands  behind 
him. 

As  Husbands  dragged  him  to  the  door  Neale 
turned  his  head  toward  Maynard.    "You'll  regret  this," 

175 


Wallannah 

he  cried,  hotly.  "You've  turned  the  tables  on  me  this 
time,  but  you  won't  do  it  again." 

Maynard,  laughing  quietly,  sat  down  in  a  chair 
and  raised  his  feet  to  the  table.  "Be  calm,  dear  boy !" 
he  said,  very  sweetly,  as  he  drew  his  pipe  from  his 
pocket  and  filled  it.  "These  little  things  are  only 
preliminary:  wait  till  we  settle  down  to  business. 
Good-night,  Captain,  good-night !  And  say.  Captain !" 
he  called,  as  an  afterthought.  Neale,  standing  with 
Husbands  in  the  doorway,  turned  his  head.  His  face 
was  white  and  he  bit  furiously  at  his  mustache. 

Maynard,  wreathed  in  tobacco-smoke,  waved  one 
hand  with  a  graceful  gesture.  "Pleasant  dreams, 
Captain!"  he  said,  with  a  sparkle  in  his  dark  eyes, 
"Breakfast  at  six,  you  know." 

With  a  ripping  curse  Neale  turned  his  back  and 
was  dragged  into  the  gloom. 


lyh 


Motier  Receives  Company 


CHAPTER  XV 

^,y   ate- 

Motier  Receives  Company 

OHN  ROSS  reached  Cantwell's  house  at 
ten  o'clock  that  night.  He  had  thought 
much  of  Mary's  unaccountable  agitation 
and  of  her  effort  to  keep  him  away  from 
the  'Squire.  These  things  were  in  his  mind  when 
he  stood  before  Cantwell's  door;  and  with  a 
sudden  resolve  he  dropped  his  hand  from  the  knocker, 
and  turning  the  knob  entered  the  house,  passing 
unannounced  into  the  'Squire's  reception-parlor. 

'Squire  Cantwell  looked  up  in  surprise  at  the 
unexpected  entrance  of  his  visitor,  whom,  at  first 
glance,  he  failed  to  recognize.  "You  should  have 
knocked,"  he  said,  sharply,  glaring  across  the  table  at 
the  intruder. 

John  pushed  his  hat-brim  from  his  forehead. 
"Think  so?"  he  said,  coolly,  fixing  his  eyes  upon 
Cantwell's  face. 

The  'Squire  sank  back  into  his  chair,  his  jaw 
dropped  and  his  eyes  seemed  bursting  from  their 
sockets.  "John  Ross !"  he  said,  at  last.  "What  do  you 
want  with  me?" 

John  still  looked  at  him.  His  face  w^as  set  like 
stone  and  his  eyes  were  cold  and  hard.  "Had  I  thought 
that  'Squire  Cantwell  and  John  IMatthews  were  one 

177 


Wallannah 

and  the  same,"  he  said,  "I  should  have  adopted  a 
different  course.  You  ask  what  I  want  with  you:  I 
want  you  to  write  an  open  letter  over  your  own 
signature  and  to  print  it  in  the  New  Bern  Gazette, 
acknowledging  your  marriage  to  my  sister  in  1754 
and  your  desertion  of  her  three  years  later.  That  is 
what  I  want  with  you." 

"But  I  have  adjusted  this  matter  with  your  sister," 
protested  Cantwell. 

''Perhaps  you  have.  But  you're  talking  with  me 
now." 

"You're  meddhng  in  other  people's  affairs." 

"Perhaps  I  am ;  but  you  can't  keep  me  from  it.  I 
expect  —  " 

Cantwell  rose  to  his  feet.  "I  decline  to  discuss 
this  matter  any  further,"  he  said,  with  a  show  of 
austerity. 

John  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Decline  all  you 
please,"  he  answered,  coolly,  "but  you'll  listen  first  to 
all  I  have  to  say.    Sit  down." 

"Get  out  of  — " 

"Sit  down!" 

"You  dirty  —  " 

John  made  a  step  toward  him. 

Cantwell  dropped  into  his  chair.  "If  you  threaten 
me,"  he  blustered,  "you'll  go  to  the  jail  —  and  stay 
there." 

'Will  you  write  that  letter  ?"  asked  John,  sternly. 

'No;  I  won't." 

Ross  turned  on  his  heel.  "Very  well,"  he  said, 
moving  toward  the  door.    "I  will." 

Cantwell  rubbed  his  hands  together  and  laughed 

178 


(If 


Motier  Receives  Company 

satirically.  "But  your  proofs,  my  dear  fellow,  your 
proofs !" 

"I  have  the  proofs,"  was  the  quick  retort;  "and 
Simon  Fawn  can  supply  the  further  evidence.  I  give 
you  until  to-morrow  at  noon  to  place  your  statement 
in  the  hands  of  the  editor  of  the  Gazette.  If  you  fail, 
I'll  make  the  statement  myself,  and  suit  will  be  entered 
against  you  in  the  superior  court."  Without  another 
word  he  turned  and  left  the  house. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  Doctor  Boggs, 
M.  Du  Val  and  Mary  Ross  were  in  Motier's  room. 
The  young  Frenchman  was  in  a  critical  condition,  and 
Boggs  was  preparing  to  operate,  before  noon,  on  the 
indented  skull.  Motier  was  slowly  awakening  from 
the  stupor  in  which  he  had  lain  for  over  sixteen  hours ; 
but  his  speech  was  thick  and  disconnected.  He  spoke 
entirely  in  French,  but  at  intervals  the  watchers  caught 
the  name  of  Lucille. 

Doctor  Boggs,  noticing  these  repetitions,  turned  to 
M.  Du  Val.    "Who  is  this  Lucille?"  he  asked. 

"Lucille  Creighton,"  the  father  answered,  "a 
relative  of  the  governor,  and  one  of  Motier's  warmest 
friends." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  responded  the  doctor.  Then,  under 
his  breath,  "Lucille  Creighton  !  Where  have  I — Aha !" 
And  he  bent  lower  and  fumbled  with  the  bandage  on 
his  patient's  head. 

Doctor  Boggs  was  an  elderly  man  of  slight  build, 
but  vigorous  and  active.  His  eyes  were  large  and 
dark  and  shone  with  frank  kindliness  under  his  shaggy 
grey  brows.  He  was  well-read  in  his  profession, 
inclined  a  little  to  the  dogmatic,  but  was,  withal,  an 

179 


Wallannah 

entertaining  and  an  untiring  talker.  When  dressed 
for  the  street  Boggs  was  a  fashion-plate  model  of  the 
period,  and  his  snuff-box  and  his  gold-headed  cane 
were  his  invariable  companions. 

The  senoir  Du  Val,  who  sat  near  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  had  lived  a  full  three-score  years.  His  features 
were  regular  and  his  face  was  particularly  noticeable 
from  the  startling  contrast  of  his  snowy  white  hair 
with  the  deep  black  of  his  eyebrows  and  mustache. 
His  expression  was  peculiarly  placid,  emotion  never 
showing  in  any  of  its  lines,  his  eyes  always  meeting 
with  calm  and  candor  those  who  looked  into  his  face. 
His  figure,  although  not  muscular,  was  graceful  and 
well-knit.  Doctor  Boggs,  looking  from  the  father  to 
the  son,  could  see  no  point  of  resemblance  between  the 
two. 

After  Motier's  longest  effort  at  speech  Boggs 
looked  up.  "Monsieur  Du  Val,"  he  said,  "your  son's 
talk  seems  a  little  rambling  to  my  ears ;  but  he  speaks 
in  French,  which  I  cannot  understand.  Would  you 
mind  being  my  interpreter  when  he  starts  again?" 

M.  Du  Val  drew  his  chair  nearer.  Ten  minutes  of 
silence  ensued ;  then  Motier,  turning  his  head  slightly, 
began  to  speak,  slowly  and  with  evident  effort.  M. 
Du  Val's  voice,  in  English,  followed  his  son's.  "Lucille, 
fair  one,  it  is  too  late  now  —  too  late.  You  have  my 
word,  and  I  will  keep  it.  Even  though  I  loved  you 
less  —  " 

"Enough,  Monsieur,"  said  the  doctor. 

The  interpreter  stopped,  but  Motier  continued  for 
several  minutes  more. 

Boggs  shook  his  head.     "Some  things  are  worse 

1 80 


Motier  Receives  Company 

than  a  cracked  skull,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he 
mixed  some  medicine  in  a  glass ;  "and  Lucille 
Creighton  is  one  of  those  things." 

Thus  it  appears  that  with  Tonta's  memory  of 
"Caiheek  Lieuten't,"  Captain  Maynard's  reference  to 
Lieutenant  John  somebody  in  Charleston,  and,  lastly, 
Doctor  Boggs'  caustic  comment  upon  Lucille,  the  path 
of  Motier's  romance  looked  like  a  mountain  road 
leading  up  to  a  grey  bank  of  cloud.  Who  could  tell 
what  lay  beyond  the  mist? 

A  few  minutes  later  Mrs.  De  Vere  came  to  the  door 
and  called  Mary.  Together  they  went  down  the  stairs 
to  meet  the  messenger  who  had  come  from  New  Bern. 
The  words  of  his  letter  were  simple,  and  their  meaning 
so  clear  that  Mary  grasped  it  all  as  she  read  the  first 
words. 

John  Ross  had  been  found  at  daybreak,  dead,  with 
a  knife-thrust  in  his  back,  lying  in  a  path  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town. 

The  circumstances  of  the  murder  were  cloaked  in 
mystery.  Ross,  having  spent  the  most  of  his  time  on 
the  farm  up  the  river,  had  few  acquaintances  in  New 
Bern ;  and  he  had  never  known  of  the  existence  of  an 
enemy.  Although  Mary  knew  that  John  had  left  her 
with  the  avowed  intention  of  calling  upon  Cantwell, 
she  did  not  associate  the  'Squire  with  the  murder.  Bad 
though  the  man  was,  she  did  not  think  him  capable  of 
taking  a  human  life.  So  she  ascribed  her  brother's 
death  to  his  association  with  the  Regulators,  whose 
lives  were  ever  threatened  by  a  thousand  dangers. 

At  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  M.  Du  Val  came 
down  to  the  parlor  and  announced  that  the  doctor  had 

i8i 


Wallannah 

operated  successfully  upon  Motier's  skull,  had  relieved 
the  pressure  on  the  brain,  and  thatthe  patient  had  fallen 
into  a  quiet  sleep.  The  news  brought  gladness  to  the 
hearts  of  all  who  heard  it,  although  the  gloom  of 
Mary's  new  misfortune  'had  touched  the  entire 
household. 

As  the  days  went  by  Motier  improved  rapidly. 
M.  Du  Val  remained  with  him,  and  Lord  Durham,  the 
De  Vere's  nearest  friend,  was  a  frequent  visitor. 
Captain  Maynard  stole  to  the  house  one  evening  at 
sundown  and  left  Motier's  room  with  a  cheerful  smile ; 
'  for  something  had  drawn  the  two  men  together,  and, 
though  one  was  forty-five  and  the  other  but  twenty-one, 
they  had  found  many  common  interests. 

John  Ross  was  buried  beside  his  mother  on  the 
river  shore  near  the  log  cabin  which  had  been  his 
life-long  home.  Lord  Durham  had  expected  to  attend 
the  funeral,  but  a  hasty  summons  to  Hillsborough 
prevented.  Thus  it  was  that  Mary  could  not  carry  out 
her  long  cherished  plan  of  telling  Durham,  or  Mr.  Noel, 
as  she  still  called  him,  that  his  wife  and  child  had  not 
been  killed  when  the  hostile  Indians  raided  the  village 
of  the  Neusiocs,  but  that  Mrs.  Noel  had  died  in  Mary's 
own  house  and  that  her  grave  was  close  by  the  one  in 
which  they  had  laid  Ross.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  that 
she  could  not  tell  this;  for  Durham's  question  would 
have  been,  "My  wife  lies  here ;  but  where  is  the  little 
girl?"    And  this  Mary  was  not  prepared  to  answer. 

Of  the  six  who  had  once  eaten  of  their  daily  bread 
in  the  cabin  by  the  Neuse  —  the  widow  Ross,  her  son 
John,  Matthews  and  Mary  his  wife,  and  the  little  boy 
and  the  baby  girl  —  all  were  gone  but  Mary.    So  it  was 

182 


Motier  Receives  Company 

that  after  closing  the  little  cabin  she  went  back  to  the 
place  which  she  called  home  —  the  mansion  of  the 
De  Veres. 

A  week  after  Doctor  Boggs  had  lifted  Motier's 
mind  from  its  shadow  he  sent  the  young  man  out  of 
doors.  Mrs.  De  Vere,  handsome  and  gracious,  walked 
with  him  through  the  garden,  and  talking  in  Madame's 
native  tongue  —  for  she,  too,  was  a  child  of  France  — 
they  laughed  away  a  happy  hour.  Mrs.  De  Vere,  with 
a  mother's  art,  said  little  of  her  daughter  Alice,  but 
what  she  did  say  was  enough  to  inspire  Motier  with 
some  interest ;  but  again,  with  a  mother's  art,  she  said, 
"Wait  until  to-morrow." 

The  next  day  young  Du  Val  breakfasted  with  the 
family,  excepting  only  Alice,  who  had  driven  to  New 
Bern  to  buy  some  silks.  Motier  charmed  his  auditors 
with  his  ease  of  manner  and  his  graceful  conversation, 
and,  parrying  with  the  keen  wit  of  Mrs.  De  Vere,  he 
kept  that  woman's  worthy  husband  with  mouth  agape 
and  eyes  that  expanded  with  every  shaft  of  repartee. 
For  De  Vere,  although  a  diplomat,  could  but  marvel  at 
any  man  who  would  argue  a  point  with  Mrs.  De  Vere. 

Later  in  the  morning,  as  Motier  sat  in  the  garden 
awaiting  his  father's  coming,  he  heard  a  footfall  on 
the  gravel  path,  and  raised  his  eyes.  There,  lovely  and 
queenly,  her  eyes  and  her  lips  joining  in  a  radiant  smile, 
with  her  arms  outstretched  toward  him,  stood  Lucille 
Creighton. 

"Motier!" 

"Lucille!" 

That  was  all  that  Alice  De  Vere  heard  as,  returning 
from  her  drive,  she  left  her  carriage  at  the  garden  gate 

183 


Wallannah 

and  passed  down  the  path  behind  the  rose  trees.  But 
the  "Motier!"  had  beneath  its  music  such  love  as  she 
had  never  heard  in  the  voice  of  woman,  and  the 
"Lucille !"  —  Alice  felt  as  though  something  had  gone 
wrong  with  the  universe.  She  passed  on  quickly  and 
left  them  together  in  the  garden.  If  she  only  could 
find  some  clue  to  the  story  of  Lieutenant  John 
whoever-he-was ! 

After  Lucille  had  done  with  telling  Motier  how  she 
had  suffered  with  him,  how  well  he  was  looking  and 
how  glad  she  was  to  see  him  again ;  and  after  Motier 
had  finished  telling  how  he  had  thought  and  had 
dreamed  of  her,  how  beautiful  she  was  and  what 
happiness  her  presence  gave,  she  took  a  letter  from 
some  hidden  pocket  and  handed  it  to  him. 

He  opened  it,  and  a  commission  as  aide-de-camp  on 
the  captain-general's  staff  stared  him  in  the  face.  He 
laughed  as  he  looked  up  at  Lucille.  "Lucille,  chere," 
he  said,  folding  the  paper  and  slipping  it  into  his 
pocket,  "you  are  holding  me  to  my  word,  I  see:  'a 
royalist,  too,  if  she  is.' " 

Lucille,  looking  down,  pushed  a  little  pebble  about 
with  the  tip  of  her  shoe.    "Are  you  sorry,  Motier  ?" 

"Sorry!"  he  exclaimed,  taking  her  hand  and 
pressing  it  to  his  lips.  "Nothing  that  you  could  do 
would  cause  me  regret ;  unless  —  " 

"Unless  what?" 

"Unless,"  he  continued,  "you  changed  your  mind 
and  did  not  —  " 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  he  saw  the  moisture  that 
glittered  under  their  lashes.  "Change,  Motier?"  she 
said,  with  a  low,  happy  laugh.    "Sometimes  I  wish  that 

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Motier  Receives  Company 

I  might."  Whatever  else  she  may  have  said  was 
whispered  in  Motier's  ear,  for  he  caught  her  in  a  swift 
embrace,  and  they  stood  for  a  moment  forgetting  all  in 
the  world  save  that  their  arms  were  about  one  another 
and  that  their  lips  were  met  in  a  kiss  that,  long  and 
ardent  though  it  was,  seemed  but  a  touch. 

"Again,  before  you  go  ?"  whispered  Motier,  as  they 
unclasped  their  arms. 

She  shook  her  head  and  laughed.  "No,  sweetheart, 
you're  too  greedy;  but  wait  until  you  come  again  to 
our  castle."  Then,  with  a  little  flush  burning  on  each 
cheek,  and  in  her  eyes  a  light  that  half  the  men  in  the 
world  would  have  fought  through  blood  and  fire  to  see 
for  one  moment,  she  walked  with  him  to  the  carriage  at 
the  front  door.  There  they  parted,  and  Motier  began 
to  wish  that  Boggs  would  send  him  back  to  the  palace. 

Motier,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back  and  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  slowly  retraced  his  steps 
to  the  garden.  His  mind  was  centred  upon  Lucille,  and 
he  wished  devoutly  for  the  day  to  come  when  he  and 
she  could  be  together  beneath  the  governor's  roof. 
Nearing  the  bench  which  he  had  left  to  meet  her,  he 
raised  his  eyes.  Captain  Maynard,  dressed  in  a 
tight-fitting  uniform  of  blue  and  buff,  stood  watching 
his  approach. 

"Why,  Captain,"  said  Motier,  taking  the  officer's 
hand,  "you  give  me  a  pleasing  surprise." 

"I  happened  near  here,  Du  Val,"  answered 
Maynard,  as  they  sat  upon  the  bench  and  lit  a  pair  of 
black  Spanish  cigarros  which  the  captain  produced, 
"and  thought  to  ask  of  your  health ;  but  Alice  telling 
me  you  were  here,  I  came  back  in  time  to  see  you  and 

185 


Wallannah 

your  lady  friend  go  through  the  gate.  So  I  waited. 
How  is  the  head?" 

"As  well  as  ever,"  answered  Motier.  Then,  with  a 
laugh,  "I  wish  that  infernal  Boggs  would  let  me  move 
around  more.    What's  going  on  in  the  world  ?" 

Maynard  looked  at  him  with  a  questioning  smile. 
"Well  enough  to  hear  some  news?"  he  asked. 

"The  more  the  better,"  laughed  Du  Val. 

"Has  Tonta  told  you  much  about  your  accident  ?" 

"All  that  he  knows." 

"Did  he  tell  you  who  shot  at  you?" 

"No,"  was  the  quick  response.    "Do  you  know  ?" 

Maynard,  behind  a  cloud  of  smoke,  nodded  his 
head.    "Do  you  want  to  know  ?"  he  asked,  quietly. 

"If  you  value  your  life,"  Motier  laughed,  "tell  me 
who  the  fellow  was." 

"Well,  now,"  responded  Maynard,  with  provoking 
slowness,  "suppose  I  told  you,  what  would  you  do  ?  go 
to  the  magistrate  and  swear  out  a  warrant  ?" 

"Magistrate  be  hanged !"  retorted  Motier,  with 
humor  and  spirit.  "I  had  enough  of  the  magistrate  the 
day  of  the  governor's  review.  He  sent  me  to  jail 
without  a  trial.     No  more  magistrate  for  me!" 

Maynard  threw  back  his  head  and  blew  a  pair 
of  smoke-rings  into  the  air.  "  What  was  your 
misconduct?"  he  asked. 

"Dealing  out  summary  punishment  to  a  fellow 
named  Cantwell." 

"Oh !  yes ;   Cantwell.    I  think  I  —  " 

"But,  Captain!"  protested  Motier,  impatiently.  "I 
want  my  assailant's  name." 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  Maynard,  brushing  a  speck 

i86 


Motier  Receives  Company 

of  ash  from  his  coat.  "We're  talking  about  him 
now." 

"Ah!"  Du  Val  drew  a  long  breath.  "I  might  have 
known."    Then  he  laughed  softly  to  himself. 

"Well,"  said  Maynard,  watching  him  with  an 
amused  but  admiring  smile.  "What  do  you  expect  to 
do  ?  ask  him  to  apologize  ?" 

Motier,  with  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees,  was 
studying  the  end  of  his  cigarro.  "Captain,"  he  said, 
looking  up  sidewise,  "Jacob  Cantwell  is  a  fool." 

"Yes?"  answered  Alaynard,  questioningly. 

"He  is  also  a  swordsman,"  Du  Val  went  on;  "he 
must  measure  his  blade  with  mine." 

Maynard  rose  to  his  feet,  one  hand  resting  on 
Motier's  shoulder.  Du  Val,  throwing  away  his  cigarro, 
stood  up  beside  him  Alike  in  height  and  breadth 
and  carriage,  the  two  represented  an  unusual  type  of 
physical  perfection. 

"Du  Val,"  said  the  captain,  with  a  hearty  handshake, 
"you're  a  man  after  my  own  heart.  I  knew  your 
answer  a  week  ago." 

"That's  my  ultimatum,  Captain,"  was  the  response. 
"But,"  and  he  smiled  a  little  as  their  eyes  met  again. 
"I  am  not  a  man  after  your  own  heart  in  all 
things." 

"It  may  be  well  that  you  are  not.  Anything 
special  ?" 

"Rather,"  said  Motier;  and  reaching  into  his 
pocket  he  drew  out  the  governor's  commission.  "Read 
that." 

Maynard,  taking  the  paper,  read  it  through. 
Motier  watched  him  closely;   but  not  a  muscle  moved 

187 


Wallannah 

in  the  captain's  face.  He  handed  back  the  sheet. 
"Irrevocable?"  he  asked,  with  a  Httle  smile. 

"Irrevocable." 

"Then  do  your  duty :  arrest  me." 

"You  're  premature,  my  dear  Captain.  I'm  not 
sworn  in." 

They  looked  into  one  another's  eyes  and  both  men 
laughed. 

"In  the  future?"  suggested  Maynard. 

"I  will  do  what  I  am  sworn  to  do." 

"And  if  we  meet  —  officially  ?" 

"If  I  don't  win,  you  will." 

"And  after  the  fighting?" 

"If  you  haven't  shot  me,  and  if  I  haven't  shot  you, 
we'll  settle  the  Cantwell  affair." 

"Now,"  said  Maynard,  with  a  perplexed  smile,  "I 
can't  stop  coming  here,  and  you  say  Boggs  won't  set 
vou  free.  When  am  I  to  know  that  you  are  a  sworn 
officer?" 

Motier  looked  down  thoughtfully.  "Well,"  he  said, 
slowly.  Then  he  looked  up  with  a  quick  laugh.  "If  I 
meet  you  in  the  De  Vere  house  after  I  am  sworn,  you'll 
find  me  very  short-sighted." 

"How?"  asked  Maynard,  reaching  out  and  taking 
Du  Val's  hand. 

"I  will  not  see  you,"  was  the  reply. 

With  a  firm  pressure  of  the  hand  and  a  hasty  "God 
bless  you!"  Maynard  slipped  into  the  bushes  and  was 
gone. 

Motier,  hearing  a  sound  behind  him,  turned  quickly. 
Down  the  gravel  walk  came  Esther  Wake  and 
Governor  Tryon. 

i88 


The  Story  of  Jack  Ashburne 


CHAPTER  XVI 

The  Story  of  Jack  Ashburne 

HE  governor  and  his  sister-in-law  spent  but 
a  short  time  at  the  De  Vere's,  but  Motier 
was  with  them  tih  they  left.  The  coming 
of  Doctor  Boggs  made  it  possible  for  DuVal 
to  promise  the  executive  to  return  to  the  palace  within 
two  days,  and  Tryon  assured  him  of  an  immediate 
assignment  to  active  work  in  the  preparation  for  the 
campaign  against  the  Regulators.  This  gratified 
Motier,  but  his  pleasure  was  not  all  in  the  anticipation 
of  his  work.  He  knew  that  the  palace  meant  Lucille, 
and  Lucille  meant  more  to  him  than  the  inspection  of 
stacks  of  guns  and  kegs  of  powder. 

Miss  Wake  led  Motier  aside  while  De  Vere  and  the 
governor  debated  a  knotty  problem  in  rose  culture. 
"Motier,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "pray  be  careful  in 
your  association  with  Captain  Maynard.  All  that  saved 
you  in  the  garden  was  a  hawk  that  swooped  across  the 
path  and  attracted  his  Excellency's  eye.  Otherwise  he 
would  have  caught  you  red-handed." 

"I  appreciate  your  spirit  of  kindliness,"  responded 
Motier,  with  a  quiet  dignity;  "but  my  interview  with 
Captain  Maynard  was  not  a  clandestine  one.  Should 
occasion  require,  I  would  not  hesitate  to  tell  the 
governor  of  the  matter." 

189 


Wallannah 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,  Motier,"  said  Esther, 
reddening  a  little.  "I  do  not  mean  to  speak  in  criticism, 
or  even  to  suggest  that  your  meeting  with  the  captain 
was  a  secret  one.  I  only  wish  to  show  you  that  I  am 
not  unmindful  of  your  interests.  Governor  Tryon,  you 
know,  is  very  bitter  against  Captain  Maynard,  and  he 
might  be  unreasonable  in  anything  bearing  upon 
him." 

"Have  no  concern,  Miss  Wake,"  said  Motier, 
laughingly.  "I  will  not  involve  myself  with  the  enemy. 
Now,  his  Excellency  seems  to  await  you :  let  me  lead 
you  to  the  carriage." 

Motier  watched  the  cloud  of  dust  that  followed  the 
governor's  equipage.  "Perhaps  I  am  sailing  close  to 
the  wind,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  turned  and  entered 
the  house.  "But  I'll  use  my  judgment  and  not  the 
governor's." 

The  next  day  was  cold  and  rainy.  Motier  and 
Alice,  who  had  met  at  dinner  the  day  before,  spent  the 
morning  together  in  the  drawing-room.  Their 
conversation  began  when  Alice,  pausing  a  moment  at 
the  door,  saw  DuVal  standing  by  the  window.  "Lonely, 
M'sieur  Du  Val?"  she  called. 

He  turned,  smiling.  "Until  now,"  he  said,  bowing 
in  the  stately  European  manner.  "Won't  you  come  in 
and  brighten  me?" 

"I  wanted  to  talk  with  you  before  you  left,"  she 
said,  as  they  met  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  "because 
you  can  tell  me  about  France,  where  mother  and  father 
lived  until  after  their  marriage ;  and  because  you  know 
so  well  the  court  life  of  which  we  Americans  can  only 
read." 

190  *' 


The  Story  of  Jack  Ashburne 

They  walked  together  to  the  window,  and  Alice 
sat  in  the  wide  window  seat.  Motier  leaning  his 
shoulder  against  the  casing,  stood  close  by  her.  "Of 
France,"  he  said,  "I  can  say  naught  but  good  —  except 
it  be  of  the  government,  which  is  extremely  bad.  Of 
the  court  life,"  he  hesitated  and  looked  down  at  her, 
"no  one  can  speak  without  some  reservation."  Motier 
would  have  spoken  more  specifically  to  Lucille  or  to 
any  other  woman  save  this  one ;  but  Alice  was  new 
and  strange  to  him,  and  something  in  her  eyes  made 
him  guard  his  lips  as  they  had  never  been  guarded 
before.  This  sensation  of  constraint  puzzled  Motier. 
Hitherto  his  manner  with  women  had  been  marked 
by  a  freedom  which  had  won  for  him  a  considerable 
renown  in  the  court  of  Louis  of  France.  His  bold 
heart  and  quick  tongue  had  put  to  frequent  silence 
every  mistress  of  epigram  and  bon  mot  in  the  salons 
of  the  day ;  and  Madame  Du  Barry,  the  king's  favorite, 
had  said  upon  more  than  one  occasion  that  young 
Du  Val  was  the  only  man  in  France  who  had  no  fear 
of  woman.  Yet,  Madame  had  overshot  the  mark ;  for 
this  same  Du  Val  was  now  showing  to  Alice  De  Vere 
that  respect  which  the  women  of  the  salons  were  wont 
to  call  timidity. 

Alice  gave  little  heed  to  her  companion's 
conservative  allusion  to  the  court  life.  "I  heard  your 
father  telling  Lord  Durham  of  many  of  your 
adventures  in  France,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him. 
"Did  you  really  escape  from  prison  and  carry  off  one 
of  the  guards  ?" 

Motier  laughed.  "Well,"  he  said,  with  a  little 
embarrassment,  "I  did  something  like  that;    but  the 

191 


Wallannah 

prison,  you  know,  was  a  very  frail  sort  of  structure, 
and  I  pushed  out  the  door  with  my  knee." 

"But  the  guard?"  said  Ahce.  "Didn't  he  try  to 
kill  you?" 

"I  don't  know  but  that  he  did;  but  he  was  in  my 
way,  and  it  seemed  safest  to  take  him  with  me." 

"But  how  did  you  do  it  ?" 

"Tied  his  hands  and  feet,  stopped  up  his  mouth  and 
carried  him  on  my  shoulder.  Really,  Miss  De  Vere, 
the  incident  was  a  trivial  one.  The  guard,  too,  was 
glad  enough  to  come  with  me." 

"And  after  that,"  said  Alice,  her  eyes  sparkling, 
"you  and  the  guard  became  fast  friends,  and  you  two 
went  to  Calais,  where  you  rescued  a  woman  who  was 
under  arrest  —  " 

"Who  told  you  all  this  ?"  laughed  Du  Val,  a  little 
flush  rising  to  his  cheeks, 

"Your  father.  But  don't  interrupt  me,  please. 
You  rescued  the  woman,  like  those  knights  we  read 
about  —  " 

"But,  Miss  De  Vere,"  broke  in  DuVal,  protestingly, 
"father  exaggerates  these  matters  fearfully.  The 
woman  rescued  herself,  you  see:  we  simply  escorted 
her  to  the  ship.  Really,"  he  added,  as  her  eyes  laughed 
into  his,  "she  did  it  all." 

"Why,  Monsieur  Du  Val !  You  know  that  you 
heard  the  woman  call  from  the  carriage,  and  that  you 
and  your  comrade  threw  the  driver  from  his  seat  and 
galloped  the  horses  to  your  ship.  Then  you  fought 
Monsieur  le  Capitaine  at  the  wharf  and  nearly  killed 
him." 

"Miss  De  Vere,  you  must  not  listen  to  all  that 

192 


The  Story  of  Jack  Ashburne 

father  tells  you.  He  must  have  said  these  things  the 
night  you  expected  me  to  die.  It  is  customary,  I 
believe,  to  over-rate  the  past  deeds  of  a  dead  or  a 
half-dead  man." 

She  met  his  objections  with  a  toss  of  her  golden 
curls.  "It's  all  true,"  she  said,  firmly,  "every  word; 
for  your  father  gave  dates  and  all.  But  he  ended  the 
story  with  the  sailing  of  the  ship.  What  happened 
after  that?" 

"Nothing  worth  recalling.  We  sailed  to  Dover, 
where  we  left  the  poor  woman  —  they  had  sent  her 
husband  to  the  Bastille,  you  know,  and  were  carrying 
her  to  a  chateau  near  Versailles.  Then  from  Dover 
we  went  to  Liverpool.  We  spent  several  months  in 
England ;  then  my  friend  the  guard  came  to  America. 
I  have  never  seen  him  since." 

Alice,  twisting  a  ribbon  about  her  fingers,  looked 
thoughtfully  at  him.  "But  why  did  all  this  happen?" 
she  asked.    "Why  did  they  put  you  into  prison  ?" 

"For  what  his  Eminence,  the  Cardinal,  called 
treason,"  responded  Motier.  "I  had  some  notions  and 
theories  about  civil  rights  and  about  the  nonsense  of 
the  divinity  of  kings." 

A  pleased  look  came  to  Alice's  face.  "You  were  a 
patriot,  then?" 

"Perhaps,"  answered  Motier,  with  a  smile.  "The 
Duke  d'Aiguillon,  however,  called  me  by  a  different 
name." 

♦'Tell  me,  what  did  he  say?" 

"As  he  passed  me  while  the  guards  steered  me 
prisonward,  he  raised  his  hat  and  called,  'M'sieur 
Du  Val,  I  salute  the  greatest  fool  in  France !'  " 

193 


Wallannah 

"How  ill-bred !"  exclaimed  Alice.  "Did  you  answer 
him?" 

"Do  you  really  care  to  know?" 

"I  really  do." 

"I  said,  'If  your  Highness  is  a  man  of  wisdom,  I 
thank  Heaven  for  having  been  born  a  fool!'  Now," 
added  Motier,  hastily,  "I  am  wrong  to  tell  you  all  this : 
it  sounds  egotistical.  Let  us  turn  the  conversation  to 
our  own  day  and  our  own  land  —  for  I  call  this  my 
land  now." 

Alice  lifted  her  eyebrows  and  shook  her  head,  "Oh ! 
no,"  she  said,  in  a  pleading  tone,  "don't  change  the 
topic  yet.  I  think  your  answer  to  the  duke  was  a 
good  one ;  but  —  "  She  hesitated  and  looked  sidewise 
through  the  window. 

"But?"  Motier  repeated. 

"I  think  you  would  have  done  better  had  you  held 
your  head  high  and  passed  by  the  duke  without  a 
word." 

Motier  looked  down  at  her.  "You  have  voiced  the 
thought  that  has  lingered  in  my  mind  ever  since  that 
day,"  he  said,  quietly.  "I  was  wrong  to  answer  him  at 
all."  And  he  remembered  with  somewhat  of  a  start 
that  Lucille  had  applauded  the  spirit  of  the  very  retort 
that  Alice  now  deprecated.  Yet  he  felt  that  Alice  was 
in  the  right. 

"If  you  were  patriotic  enough  to  go  to  jail  rather 
than  change  your  politics,"  asked  Alice,  "why  have  you 
been  a  royalist  ever  since?" 

The  question  struck  Motier  on  a  weak  spot  in  his 
armor.  He  could  not  say  to  her  that  he  was  a  royalist 
because  he  had  promised  Lucille  to  be  one,  so  he 

194 


The  Story  of  Jack  Ashburne 

answered  as  best  he  could.  "Because,"  he  said, 
evasively,  "the  government  of  Great  Britain  is  far  more 
Hberal  than  that  of  France." 

"Do  you  think  that  we  in  the  colonies  are  well 
treated?"  she  asked,  earnestly.  "Don't  you  think  the 
government  too  severe  in  its  strictures?" 

Motier  shook  his  head.  "No;  I  think  that  some 
few  matters  might  be  handled  more  considerately ;  but 
in  general  I  think  that  the  provinces  have  little  cause 
for  complaint.  Under  a  ruler  like  Louis  XV,  for 
instance,  you  would  hesitate  to  call  life  worth  the 
living." 

Alice  looked  out  into  the  rain.  She  wanted  to 
debate  the  condition  of  the  colonies,  but  her  spirit  of 
hospitality  overcame  her  patriotism. 

She  turned  suddenly  and  saw  that  Motier's  eyes 
were  fixed  curiously  and  questioningly  upon  her  face. 
But  she  met  the  look  with  a  smile,  and  changed  the 
subject.  "How  do  you  like  Captain  Maynard?"  she 
asked. 

"As  well  as  any  man  I  ever  met,"  he  answered. 

"We  think  him  the  best  and  bravest  man  in  the 
world.  You  remind  me  in  many  ways  of  him.  You 
are  both  tall  and  much  alike  in  physique ;  then,  too,  you 
both  have  that  way  of  laughing  when  you  are 
angry." 

"But  you  have  never  seen  me  -angry." 

"N-no,"  she  answered,  slowly,  "but  I  know  that  you 
would  laugh  if  you  were.  Then,"  she  continued, 
"sometimes  you  look  so  like  him  that  I  can  never 
think  of  you  but  as  a  sort  of  avenging  Nemesis.'* 

"Really,"  he  said,  with  an  amused  smile,  "you  must 

195 


Wallannah 

think  me  a  terrible  fellow.  How  do  the  captain  and  I 
suggest  avengers  of  wrong?" 

"Sometimes,"  she  said,  lowering  her  voice  into 
seriousness,  "Captain  Alaynard  talks  with  father  about 
some  things  which  have  happened  in  his  life,  and  his 
eyes  get  so  cold  and  so  merciless  that  it  makes  me 
shiver  to  think  of  the  day  when  he  may  meet  the  men 
who  have  wronged  him.  The  same  look  came  into  your 
eyes  when  you  said  that  you  had  never  seen  your  friend 
the  guardsman  since  he  left  you  in  England.  If  you 
ever  meet  him  —  " 

"But  I  will  never  meet  him,  mon  ami,"  answered 
Du  Val.    "He  is  too  far  away." 

"But  you  may,"  persisted  Alice.  "You  and  he  were 
good  friends,  were  you  not?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  gravely,  "the  world  has  never 
seen  another  such  as  he." 

"Was  he  tall,  too,  and  strong,  and  did  he  laugh 
when  he  felt  angry?" 

"Come  here  by  the  fire.  Miss  De  Vere,"  said  Motier, 
drawing  two  chairs  before  the  grate,  "and  if  you  wish 
I'll  tell  you  of  my  friend  the  guardsman;  but  I  can't 
promise  to  tell  you  why  I  never  expect  to  meet 
him. 

"My  friend,"  he  said,  as  they  took  their  seats,  "was 
an  Englishman.  He  had  left  his  regiment  because  — 
because  his  debts  grew  too  burdensome."  The 
excessive  debts  were  in  Du  Val's  imagination :  the  real 
cause  was  the  love  of  a  woman,  but  Motier  evaded  the 
truth,  as  he  had  once  before,  because  he  was  afraid  of 
the  clear,  pure  look  in  Alice's  eyes.  "He  left  the 
country  for  the  —  the  same  reason.     That  was  years 

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The  Story  of  Jack  Ashburne 

and  years  ago.  I  had  seen  him  but  once  before  I 
carried  him  away  from  the  jail;  but  I  took  a  fancy  to 
him  because  he  was  all  that  you,  in  your  question,  asked 
if  he  was.  He  was  tall  and  strong  and  he  did  'laugh 
w^hen  he  felt  angry.'  " 

"I  knew  that,"  laughed  Alice.  "All  brave  men  do 
that  way." 

"Yes,  of  course  they  do,"  assented  Motier,  "but  it 
doesn't  follow  that  all  men  who  do  that  way  are  brave. 
Now,  as  you  know,  my  friend  of  the  guard  crossed  to 
Dover  on  the  ship  with  me,  and  with  the  fugitive 
Frenchwoman.  We  left  the  lady  to  her  own  devices, 
and  he  and  I  played  cards  from  the  wharf  at  Calais  to 
the  landing  in  England.  It  was  wicked,  you  will  say, 
but  we  played  for  gold  and  I  won  all  that  he  had  and 
ran  him  into  my  debt  for  considerably  more  that  he  did 
not  have.  We  spent  some  time  around  Liverpool,  and 
my  friend  made  a  little  money  by  teaching  some  peer 
of  the  realm  to  fence  with  the  rapier.  He  then  paid 
all  that  he  owed  me.  and  we  struck  northward  toward 
the  border. 

"Somewhere  near  the  line  which  divides  England 
from  Scotland  we  became  involved  in  a  petty  uprising 
of  some  landlord's  tenants.  I  was  seized  and  locked 
up  in  a  wagon-shed:  my  friend  escaped.  It  being 
night  my  captors  deemed  it  inadvisable  to  wake  up  'my 
Lord'  so-and-so,  and  I  was  kept  in  the  shed  with  the 
expectation  of  being  handed  over  to  the  authorities 
in  the  morning.  My  friend,  however,  biding  his  time, 
had  stolen  up  to  'my  Lord's'  house,  frightened  some 
poor  woman  half  to  death,  and  with  a  bottle  of  wine, 
a  broiled  steak  and  an  axe  —  with  these  things  he 

197 


Wallannah 

evaded  a  part  of  the  plough-boy  guard  and  came  down 
to  my  lodging  place.  Some  one  shot  at  him,  but  he 
split  the  fellow's  head  with  the  axe,  and,  battering 
down  the  door,  he  let  me  out.  After  that  we  ran  a  mile 
or  two  through  the  woods,  and  then  sat  down  to 
luncheon. 

"Now  this  shows  you  what  manner  of  man  he  was. 
I  never  knew  a  braver  soldier  than  he ;  he  was  the  truest 
friend  that  ever  breathed ;  and  his  good-humor  was 
unfailing.  His  companions  in  the  old  English  regiment 
have  told  me  that  this  man  could  laugh  into  the 
cannon's  mouth,  and  sing  songs  into  the  faces  of  the 
men  who  went  down  before  his  sword,  yet  be  as  tender 
as  a  woman  with  a  wounded  comrade.  After  we 
cleared  the  borderland  he  saved  my  life  four  times,  once 
from  drowning,  once  from  the  explosion  of  a  barrel 
of  powder,  and  twice  from  the  assaults  of  footpads. 
When  we  returned  to  Liverpool  we  met  my  father,  who 
had  left  France  in  a  more  graceful  manner  than  did  his 
son.  Here  my  friend  of  the  guard  found  two  solicitors 
waiting  for  him  with  a  legacy  of  something  like  a 
hundred  thousand  pounds.  If  you  guessed  all  your  life 
you  could  never  tell  what  he  did  with  the  money. 

"First  he  squared  up  his  old  debts ;  then  he  gave  a 
banquet  to  the  English  regiment  that  still  called  him 
theirs;  after  that  he  crossed  over  to  France  and 
without  my  knowledge  purchased  my  pardon  from  the 
French  government ;  he  came  back  and  hunting  up  the 
fugitive  woman  who  had  crossed  with  us  from  France, 
forced  her  to  take  —  at  the  point  of  a  pistol,  he  said  — 
ten  thousand  pounds  of  his  money  and  to  go  back  to 
France  for  her  husband,  who,  he  told  her,  would  be 

198 


The  Story  of  Jack  Ashburne 

free  before  she  got  there;  and  then  my  friend  of  the 
guard  ended  it  all  by  eloping  with  a  beautiful 
Lincolnshire  girl  and  sailing  for  America.  That  is 
his  story  as  I  know  it." 

Alice's  face  was  aglow  with  excitement.  "And 
then,"  she  said,  "after  he  came  to  America  —  then 
what?" 

"If  I  tell  you  that  you  will  know  why  I  can  never 
meet  him." 

"But  tell  me,"  she  said,  impatiently.  "You've  left 
off  at  the  most  interesting  point.  What  did  your  friend 
do  when  he  came  to  America?" 

Motier  looked  gravely  into  her  eyes.  "He  took  a 
pistol  and  blew  out  his  brains,"  he  answered,  quietly. 

Alice  looked  up  quickly  and  half  arose  from  her 
chair.  "Oh!  M'sieur  Du  Val,  you  —  I  had  no  idea 
what  I  asked.    I  hope  —  " 

"You  have  done  nothing,"  answered  Motier,  kindly. 
Then  he  smiled,  a  very  slight  smile  and  a  very  sad  one, 
she  thought.  "The  other  woman  was  the  one  who  did 
the  mischief,"  he  said. 

"The  one  who  came  from  England  with  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Who  was  she?" 

Motier  looked  at  her.  "If  I  knew  —  "  He  stopped 
with  a  short  laugh.  In  his  eyes  was  the  same  merciless 
gleam  that  Alice  had  seen  there  once  before. 

They  were  silent  for  several  minutes,  Alice  gazing 
thoughtfully  into  the  fire,  and  Motier,  his  lips  pressed 
firmly  together,  looking  through  and  beyond  the  mantel 
into  the  days  when  his  friend  had  lived. 

At  last  Alice  spoke.    "One  thing  you  have  not  told 

199 


Wallannah 

me,"  she  asked,  softly.  "What  was  the  guardsman's 
name?" 

"Lieutenant  John  Ashburne,"  he  answered,  turning 
his  eyes  upon  her.  Then,  bending  forward  quickly, 
"Are  you  ill,  Miss  De  Vere." 

Alice  was  very  pale.  "No,  no,"  she  said,  in  an 
agitated  voice.  "But  tell  me,  where  —  in  what  city  did 
he  live  in  America?" 

"Charleston,  in  South  Carolina." 

Then  Alice,  remembering  Maynard's  words,  knew 
that  Lieutenant  John  Ashburne  had  shot  himself 
because  of  Lucille  Creighton.  And  Motier  —  she 
recalled  the  look  that  had  come  to  his  eyes  as  he  said, 
"If  I  knew  —  " 

"M'sieur  Du  Val,"  she  said,  faintly,  "I  think  I  do 
feel  ill.    Will  you  pardon  me  if  I  leave  you?" 

He  led  her  to  the  door  of  her  mother's  room.  Then, 
returning  to  the  drawing-room,  he  stood  again  at  the 
window.  "Women  are  strange  creatures,"  he  muttered 
to  himself,  "but  this  is  the  strangest.  What  can  she 
know  of  John  Ashburne  ?"  But  his  uppermost  thought 
crept  out  in  his  next  sentence.  "If  I  knew  who  the 
woman  was  who  forced  that  man  to  what  he  did,  I 
would  forget  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  — "  He 
shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  added,  as  he  turned  and 
flung  himself  into  a  chair,  "that  would  be  too  good  for 
her." 


200 


The  Gift  of  the  White  Rose 


CHAPTER  XVII 

The  Gift  of  the  White  Rose 

OTTER    and    Tonta    spent    the    afternoon 

making  ready   for  their   departure  on  the 

morrow.      Their    conversation    had    been 

varied,    its    topics    suggesting    themselves 

from  tmie  to  time  as  the  two  worked  about  the  room. 

After  one  of  their  silences,  Motier,  moving  aside 
a  chair,  disclosed  a  bag  lying  upon  the  floor  in  one 
corner  of  the  room.  "Some  of  your  plunder,  Tonta?" 
he  asked,  lifting  it  up  and  laying  it  upon  the  table. 

Tonta,  polishing  a  boot,  looked  up  from  his.  work. 
"Tonta  take  'em,"  he  said,  simply,  "Caiheek  take  'em 
back." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  have  played  your 
old  tricks  here?" 

"Me  no  help  it :  Bad  Spirit  take  'em.  Tonta  good 
—  Caiheek  take  back." 

Du  Val,  cutting  the  string  that  closed  the  mouth 
of  the  bag,  emptied  the  contents  onto  the  table.  Such 
an  assortment  he  had  never  seen :  combs  and  brushes, 
cups,  saucers,  spoons,  forks,  books,  jewelry,  ribbons, 
and  a  score  of  other  articles  lay  before  Motier's 
astounded  gaze.  "Well,"  he  said,  when  he  had  finished 
his  inventory,  "you've  made  a  harvest  this  time. 
What's  this  book  ?    Cullen's  Lectures,  eh  ?    Good  thing 

201 


Wallannah 

for  an  Indian  who  cannot  read.  You  stole  this  from 
Doctor  Boggs :  you  should  not  have  done  that,  Tonta. 
The  doctor  probably  brought  that  book  here  to  use  in 
my  illness :  your  taking  it  might  have  cost  my  life." 

"Tonta  take  doctor  book  —  Caiheek  get  well." 

"No  compliment  that,  to  the  doctor.  I'll  give  this 
back  to  him.  And  these  other  things  you  must  scatter 
about  the  house  and  trust  to  luck  for  their  getting  back 
to  their  owners.  But  this  dagger  ?  whose  is  this  ?"  He 
picked  up  an  exquisitely  mounted  dagger  with  a 
fantastic  four-edged  blade. 

"Yawhauk  try  shoot  Caiheek.  Tonta  find 
wee-woshonshee  —  this.  Caiheek  take  him  —  find 
Yawhauk." 

"You  found  this  in  the  woods  where  the  man  shot 
at  me?" 

"Not  close  —  long  way." 

Motier  turned  the  dagger  over  in  his  hand.  The 
side  of  the  ivory  hilt  was  set  with  five  glittering 
emeralds.  Between  the  stones  were  five  slight  marks 
on  the  ivory,  seeming  like  the  scratches  of  a  like 
number  of  jewels  on  another  handle.  "A  peculiar 
weapon,"  reflected  Motier,  "and  one  of  a  pair.  I 
wonder  if  the  other  one  will  ever  turn  up.  This  goes 
into  my  satchel,  for  future  reference." 

He  looked  down  again  at  Tonta's  collection  of 
trophies.  "Now,  Tonta,"  he  said,  picking  up  a  small 
gold  case,  "you've  gone  rather  far  in  this.  Where  did 
you  —  Ah!  A  miniature!"  He  had  opened  the  case 
and  was  studying  the  features  portrayed  within  it. 

The  picture  held  his  gaze  with  something  like 
fascination.    Its  subject  was  a  mother  and  a  child,  the 

202 


The  Gift  of  the  White  Rose 

latter  a  boy  of  perhaps  two  years  of  age.  The  woman's 
face  was  singularly  beautiful,  and  Motier  was  struck 
with  the  rich  harmony  of  the  deep  brown  of  her  eyes 
and  the  raven  blackness  of  her  hair  with  the  rose  of 
her  cheeks  and  the  vivid  blood-red  of  her  lips. 

"H'm !"  he  said,  wonderingly.  "I  have  never  seen 
the  woman,  I  can  swear  to  that ;  but  there's  something 
wonderfully  familiar  in  the  face.    Who  is  she,  Tonta  ?" 

"Wallannah,"  answered  Tonta,  reverently. 

Something  in  the  boy's  manner  attracted  Motier's 
attention.  "Wallannah?"  he  repeated,  slowly.  "And 
who  is  Wallannah  ?" 

"Wallannah  Manita,  spirit  —  live  Yaunocca  —  in 
mountain.     Indian  'fraid  Wallannah  —  love  her." 

"But  this  is  a  woman." 

"No  woman  —  Wallannah  Manita." 

"Manita,"  repeated  Motier,  in  some  perplexity.  "I 
suppose  that  means  some  sort  of  goddess,  doesn't  it?" 

"Caiheek  say  good." 

"Then  how  did  you  get  this  picture?" 

"Bobbasheelah  —  Cap'n." 

"So  you  steal  from  Captain  Maynard,  do  you?" 

"Bad  Spirit  steal.  Me  hold  Cap'n  horse  —  see 
wassador  in  pocket  —  purty,  like  him  snuffer-box.  Bad 
Spirit  take  him.    Caiheek  take  him  back." 

"Wallannah, then, is  a  friend  of  Captain  Maynard?" 

"Wallannah  bobbasheelah  Manita  —  save  him 
Cap'n." 

"Is  the  captain  safe  now  ?" 

"Him  safe  —  go  last  night  see  Wallannah.'* 

Motier  looked  curiously  into  the  copper-colored 
face.     "Well,"  he  said,  with  a  mystified  laugh,  "I 

203 


Wallannah 

suppose  you  know  what  you  mean ;  but  the  whole  affair 
goes  a  point  beyond  me.  I'll  take  the  picture  and  will 
return  it  to  Captain  Maynard  if  I  ever  see  him  again. 
Now,  Tonta,  finish  cleaning  my  boots,  then  go  down  to 
the  stables  and  rub  down  Fleetfoot.  I'm  going  to  play 
chess  with  Mr.  De  Vere." 

The  next  morning  was  warm  and  clear,  and  Motier, 
after  donning  his  riding  suit,  went  down  to  the  garden 
for  a  walk  before  breakfast.  He  found  Alice  there 
before  him,  plucking  some  hardy  spring  roses  for  the 
table. 

They  spent  an  hour  together,  talking  a  great  deal 
about  a  very  little,  and  walking  as  they  talked,  up  one 
path  and  down  another,  until  the  breakfast  bell  rang. 

Motier,  master  of  his  feelings  though  he  was,  could 
not  account  for  his  diffidence  in  this  young  woman's 
presence.  Unconsciously,  as  she  talked,  he  seemed 
lifted  above  himself.  He  recalled  the  freedom  of  his 
conversations  with  Lucille :  he  could  imagine  no 
situation  which  could  lead  him  to  talk  in  such  a  way  to 
Alice.  Yet,  the  girl  was  not  a  prude :  he  disdained  the 
very  thought.  But  something  kept  him  at  a  distance. 
He  could  liken  the  feeling  to  but  one  other  within  the 
range  of  his  whole  experience,  and  that  was  the  one 
which  had  come  over  him  one  night  in  Paris  when  one 
Le  Brun,  a  swaggering  braggadocio,  had  said  in  a  cafe 
on  the  Rue  de  la  Madeleine,  "Drink  some  of  this, 
Du  Val ;  it  is  sacramental  wine  stolen  from  the 
Cathedral  Notre  Dame."  Du  Val  had  refused  the  glass 
with  the  same  feeling  at  heart  as  was  now  inspired  by 
this  bit  of  a  woman.  Was  it  reverence  ?  ]\Iotier  looked 
at  her  as  she  bent  over  a  rose-bush.    Fair  she  was ;  gold 

204 


The  Gift  of  the  White  Rose 

were  dull  beside  such  hair  as  hers,  and  alabaster  would 
be  coarse  and  muddy  against  her  cheek.  As  she  lifted 
her  head,  she  looked  up  at  him  —  for  he  was  taller  by 
far  than  she  —  and  her  eyes,  blue  and  clear  as  an 
Alpine  lake,  met  his.  Was  it  reverence  that  he  felt? 
He  could  call  it  nothing  else.  But  someway  the  whole 
situation  baffled  his  reason.  Then,  too,  was  the 
provoking  consciousness  that  he  was  giving  more 
thought  to  her  than  she  gave  to  him.  And  why?  He 
asked  the  question  a  score  of  times ;  but  the  answer 
would  not  come. 

The  two  lingered  in  the  dining-room  after  the 
others  had  left,  Alice  enthroned  in  her  father's  oaken 
chair  at  the  head  of  the  table,  Motier  sitting  upon  the 
arm  of  the  chair  next  at  her  right.  Their  conversation 
had  been  more  personal  than  at  any  time  before,  and 
IMotier  felt  as  he  thought  a  man  must  feel  when, 
batthng  with  a  whirlpool's  current,  he  is  drawn  into 
the  vortex.  Yet,  to  carry  out  the  metaphor,  the 
whirlpool  seemed  an  inverted  one,  not  drawing  him 
down,  but  lifting  him  up ;  and,  as  an  inverted  whirlpool 
IS  by  necessity  an  anomaly,  Du  Val  concluded  that 
there  was  no  whirlpool  at  all,  but  that  some  freak 
m  the  nature  of  man  was  doing  its  work  within 
him. 

Pure  and  sweet  and  lovely  she  looked  as  she  sat 
there,  robed  in  white,  with  a  brooch  of  pearls  at  her 
throat  and  a  white  ribbon  in  her  hair.  Compared  with 
Lucille  this  woman  was  cold  and  unbending,  and  he 
felt  that  her  heart  beat  slowly  and  that  reason  was  the 
dominant  power  within  her. 

"M'sieur    Du    Val,"    she    said,    after    they    had 

205 


Wallannah 

exhausted  the  common  topics  of  the  hour,  "bring  me 
a  rose  from  the  vase." 

"For  you?"  he  asked,  as  he  bent  over  the  table. 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  answered.  "This 
will  be  for  you.  I  give  it  as  a  talisman,"  she  added, 
with  a  touch  of  merriment.    "Bring  a  yellow  one." 

"Yellow?"  he  asked,  hesitating  as  he  reached  for 
the  flower.  "Yellow,  you  know,  typifies  jealousy  and 
all  such  disagreeable  things."  And  Lucille's  amber 
silk  came  to  his  mind. 

"Then  yellow  .won't  do,"  said  Alice,  with  a  quiet 
laugh.    "Choose  my  color  for  me." 

Motier's  »hand  dropped  to  a  ;rose  of  dainty  white. 
"This  is  yours,"  he  said,  handing  "it  to  her;  "the  others 
do  not  suit." 

She  smiled  a  little.  "Come  closer,"  she  said,  taking 
a  pin  from  her  belt,  "and  let  me  fasten  the  flower  to 
your  coat." 

He  drew  nearer  to  her  and  bending  down  met  the 
laughing  regard  of  her  eyes.  iHe  steadied  the  lapel 
with  his  hand  while  she  fastened  the  rose  upon  it. 
Her  fingers  touched  his  for  a  single  instant,  and  he  felt 
the  color  rise  in  his  cheeks. 

"There,"  she  said,  breaking  off  the  surplus  stem 
and  leaves,  "I  have  given  'you  my  colors.  Rise,  Sir 
Motier ;  henceforth  you  are  my  knight."  She  laughed 
as  she  spoke  the  words,  but  Motier  felt  a  strange 
embarrassment;  for  he  remembered  the  words,  "my 
knight,"  as  they  had  last  fallen  from  Lucille's  lips. 
lYet,  the  thought  seemed  discordant;  why,  he  could 
not  tell. 

"They  say,"  he  said,  rallying  from  his  momentary 

206 


The  Gift  of  the  White  Rose 

confusion,  "that  flowers  have  voices.  I  cannot  hear 
this  one,  but  I  receive  it  as  an  emblem  of  purity  and 
truth.    And  when  it  withers  —  " 

"You  may  come  and  get  another." 

"But  if  I  am  too  far  away?" 

"Why,  then  you  —  "  She  hesitated,  and  looked, 
with  grave  eyes,  straight  down  the  white-clothed  table. 

"Let  me  finish  that,"  said  Motier.     "If  I  am  too/ 
far  away  to  come  back,  I  will  keep  the  dried-up  flower ;  * 
for  a  withered  white  rose  is  better,  to  my  mind,  than  a 
fresh  blood-red  one."    Devious  were  the  ways  before 
Motier ;   for  Lucille  wore  a  red  rose  five  days  in  every 
seven. 

Du  Val  looked  at  his  watch.  Two  hours  had  crept 
by.  "Ma  foi,  mon  ami!"  he  said,  his  surprise  forcing 
him  to  his  native  tongue.  "I  must  be  about  my  work: 
I  leave  at  twelve." 

"And  must  you  go  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  wistful  ring 
in  her  voice. 

"Yes;  to  my  regret.  The  governor's  orders,  you 
see. 

"The  governor's  orders?"  she  repeated,  slowly. 
"Why  does  the  governor  give  orders  —  to  you  ?" 

"Do  you  not  know?"  he  asked,  with  some  surprise. 
"I  am  a  staff  ofiicer." 

"You  a  staff  officer!"  she  exclaimed,  rising  from 
her  chair.    "Why,  M'sieur  Du  Val,  I  am  astonished !" 

"Astonished,  Miss  De  Vere?  and  why?" 

Her  face  wore  a  troubled  look.  "Because,"  she 
answered,  with  a  little  trace  of  resentment,  "  I  thought 
from  all  that  I  had  heard  that  you  would  remain  neutral 
in  this  conflict.     Captain  Maynard,  who  has  already 

207 


Wallannah 

been  much  to  you,  is  arrayed  on  the  side  of  the 
Regulators ;  our  sympathies  are  all  with  them ;  and  — 
and  I  am  sorry,  M'sieur  Du  Val,  that  you  have  done 
this." 

Motier  looked  down.  The  visions  of  martial  glory 
which  had  been  before  his  mind  were  scattered  and 
dispelled  by  the  words  of  this  girl  —  the  friend  of  but 
three  short  days.  "I  regret  all  these  things  of  which 
you  speak/'  he  said,  quietly,  "but  really.  Miss  De  Vere," 
and  he  raised  his  eyes  as  he  spoke,  "the  path  of  my  duty 
was  very  plain  before  me :  I  could  choose  no  other." 

She  was  looking  out  through  the  window  to  the 
garden  of  the  roses.  He  felt  his  heart  sink  as  he 
watched  her.  "Are  you  fully  committed  to  it?"  she 
asked,  after  a  painful  silence. 

"Entirely,  Miss  De  Vere,"  he  answered, 
remembering  his  promise  to  Lucille.    "But  I  wish  —  " 

She  turned  quickly.  "What  do  you  wish?"  she 
asked,  eagerly. 

But  he  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  answered,  "I 
cannot  say  what  I  started  to  say.  It  would  be  treason 
to  myself." 

"I  cannot  ask  you  now,"  she  said,  looking  again 
to  the  window.  "You  have  promised,  and  that  must 
end  it.  But  I  am  very  sorry."  Her  voice  sounded 
cold  and  distant.  "I  will  go  to  my  room,"  she  said,  at 
length.     "Good-bye,   M'sieur  Du  Val." 

Motier  stepped  beside  her.  "Can  I  not  see  you 
again  before  I  go?"  he  asked. 

She  raised  her  eyes.  "No,"  she  answered,  steadily. 
"It  would  not  be  for  the  best."  And  he  heard  the  rustle 
of  her  skirts  as  she  passed  down  the  hall. 

208 


The  Gift  of  the  White  Rose 

With  a  tinge  of  bitterness  in  his  smile  Motier 
stooped  to  the  floor  and  picked  up  the  rose  which  had 
fallen  from  his  coat.  It  was  crushed  and  torn  and  he 
knew  that  she  had  stepped  upon  it  where  it  had  lain. 
"John,"  he  called  to  the  footman,  "take  this  flower  to 
Miss  De  Vere :   I  think  it  is  hers." 

Du  Val  spent  a  busy  afternoon  with  the  governor 
and  his  secretary  and  Malcolm,  the  senior  aide. 
Luncheon  was  brought  to  the  four  as  they  worked. 
Save  only  the  secretary,  they  were  in  uniform,  and 
Motier,  overtopping  them  all,  looked  the  soldier  in 
every  line.  They  accomplished  much,  and  Du  Val 
entered  into  the  work  with  a  zest  that  surprised  him. 
Yet,  when  they  dispersed  at  seven  o'clock,  Motier, 
with  a  quiet  shrug,  said  to  himself,  "The  white  rose 
girl  has  spoiled  some  of  the  fun  for  me." 

Motier  went  to  his  room  after  supper.  He  thought 
first  to  change  his  uniform  for  his  customary  black, 
but  the  governor's  secretary  sent  word  for  him  to 
attend  a  military  council  at  ten  o'clock. 

Motier  muttered  something  disrespectful.  "A 
council  at  ten  o'clock  at  night!"  he  said,  with  disgust. 
"He'll  have  more  councils  in  the  next  three  days  than 
had  Alexander  when  he  conquered  the  world."  But  the 
ten  o'clock  council  was  not  the  thing  that  fretted 
DuVal.  He  had  sent  a  valet  to  Lucille  with  a  request 
for  the  evening  with  her,  and  from  eight-fifteen  to  ten 
would  be  but  half  of  the  time  he  wanted. 

The  vague  misgivings  which  had  haunted  him 
when  Alice  was  near  had  left  him  when  he  stood  once 
more  within  the  palace.  He  looked  forward  to  his 
meeting  with  Lucille  with  uncontrollable  impatience. 

209 


Wallannah 

Remembering  her  words  in  the  garden  at  Beechwood, 
"Wait  until  you  come  again  to  our  castle,"  he  could 
hardly  restrain  the  wild  longing  to  go  to  her  on  the 
instant. 

He  lit  his  pipe  and  sat  by  the  window  smoking  and 
waiting  for  Lucille's  reply.  After  an  interminable  time 
the  valet  came  to  the  door.  Motier  took  the  note  from 
his  hand.  It  began  abruptly,  "At  eight-thirty,  in  the 
parlor  in  the  upper  suite.    Yours  ever,  Lucille." 

"Humph !"  he  growled.  "Brief  enough ;  and  she 
has  shaved  fifteen  minutes  off  my  time,  too."  Then 
he  looked  down  at  the  paper.  On  its  back  was  a 
superscription  which  before  had  escaped  his  notice. 
"To  my  knight,"  it  said,  and  the  "my"  was  heavily 
underscored.  Motier  smiled,  as  he  relit  his  pipe  by  the 
candle  flame.  "I  seem  to  be  several  knights,"  he  said, 
looking  out  into  the  darkness. 

He  stood  at  the  window  a  long  time,  the  smoke 
from  his  pipe  floating  into  the  room  and  curling  about 
the  candles  in  the  sconce.  Then  his  shoulders  rose  and 
fell  with  a  sigh.  "Queer,"  he  said,  knocking  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe,  "but  I  can't  drive  Ashburne  and  the 
woman  from  my  mind." 


A  Temptation  that  Went  Astray 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  Temptation  that  Went  Astray 

HE  upper  parlor  was  a  small  room,  but  its 
furnishings,  thanks  to  the  exquisite  taste 
of  Esther  Wake,  were  richer  than  those  of 

any  other  apartment  in  the  palace.     The 

walls  were  profusely  mirrored,  and  the  beams  from 
the  multi  -  branched  candelabra  were  reflected  and 
counter  -  reflected  until  the  room  seemed  ablaze  with 
light.  The  floor  was  bare  save  where  a  few  heavy  rugs 
stood  out  brightly  from  their  dark  background.  One 
of  these  was  a  tiger-skin,  with  mounted  head  and 
gleaming  eyes,  and  it  was  on  this  that  Lucille,  in  her 
gown  of  amber  silk,  stood  waiting  when  DuVal  entered 
the  room. 

"Well,  my  Lord,"  she  said,  with  a  mocking 
courtesy,  "you  have  deigned  at  last  to  come  to  me." 

"As  you  see,  my  Lady,"  responded  Motier,  crossing 
to  her,  "I  am  now  a  soldier,  and  must  needs  follow  my 
duty  and  not  my  heart."  Her  hands  were  clasped  as 
she  stood  there,  and  Motier,  taking  them  both  in  one  of 
his,  drew  her  up  to  him  and  kissed  her.  .  "We  are  now 
in  our  castle,"  he  said ;  "and  I  will  see  that  I  have  my 
due." 

"You  were  overpaid  in  that  one  kiss,"  she  answered, 
following  him   to  the   seat  in   the  alcove.    "I   must 

2IZ 


Wallannah 

hold  you  in  reasonable  bounds,  Alotier ;  else  you  would 
break  from  my  control." 

"Then  affairs  would  be  very  sad,  wouldn't  they, 
Lucille?"  he  retorted,  laughingly,  as  they  sank  back 
upon  the  silken  cushions. 

"Sad,  or  glad,"  she  said,  with  a  far-off  look  in  her 
eyes.  "There  is  a  vast  gulf  between  the  two,  and  few 
can  span  it.  But  now,"  she  said,  with  a  quick  change 
of  mood,  "tell  me  what  you  have  said  and  done  since 
I  left  you  at  Beechwood." 

Motier,  leaning  back  and  turning  his  head  so  that 
Lucille's  face  was  always  before  his  eyes,  told  much 
and  withheld  much  more  of  the  things  which  had 
happened  at  the  De  Veres.  Of  JNIaynard  he  said 
nothing,  of  Alice  scarcely  more,  but  he  painted  with 
bold  strokes  the  portraits  of  De  Vere  and  his  wife,  and 
dwelt  at  length  on  Doctor  Boggs  and  Alary  Ross. 
When  he  was  weary  of  this  talk  jMotier  asked  her  to 
account  for  her  time  during  his  absence. 

"I  have  done  nothing,  Motier,"  she  said,  "but  to  eat 
and  sleep  and  mingle  with  the  governor's  gatherings. 
Nearly  all  of  my  evenings  have  been  lonely,  so  lonely 
that  I  wished  a  thousand  times  that  I  might  saddle  a 
horse  and  ride  to  Beechwood  and  —  to  you." 

"You  have  missed  me,  then,  chere?"  he  asked, 
slipping  his  hand  over  hers  and  holding  it  with  a  gentle 
pressure. 

"Yes,  Motier ;  I  have  missed  you  much ;  how  much 
you  cannot  know." 

"But  I  am  here  now ;  why  are  you  —  " 

"Why  am  I  so  deep  in  my  woes?"  she  said,  filling 
out  the  sentence  for  him. 

212 


A  Temptation  that  Went  Astray 

-  "Yes  why?  You  are  not  yourself  to-night,  ma 
belle.    Why  is  it?" 

"Because,  Motier,"  and  the  eyes  that  turned  to  his 
were  moist  with  tears,  "I  have  a  letter  from  father,  and 
must  leave  by  the  ship  to-morrow  to  meet  him  in 
Boston." 

Motier  bent  forward.  "In  Boston?  and  so  soon?" 
he  asked,  scanning  her  face  as  one  looks  at  a  beautiful 
picture.  "Don't  tell  me,  Lucille,  that  you  must  go 
to-morrow." 

"To-morrow,  dearest,"  she  said,  tenderly.  "I  would 
have  let  you  know  earlier,  but  I  heard  from  father  only 
this  morning." 

"But  you  will  come  back  soon?"  he  asked,  scarcely 
yet  able  to  grasp  the  full  significance  of  her  words. 

"Soon?"  she  repeated,  dreamily.  "I  do  not  know: 
I  may  never  come  back." 

"Never  come  back !     You  cannot  mean  that." 

"It  may  be,  Motier;  until  I  reach  there  I  shall 
know  nothing  of  the  future." 

Motier,  who  was  leaning  slightly  forward  with  his 
chin  resting  in  his  hand,  was  silent  a  long  time,  his  eyes 
looking  into  vacancy. 

"Are  you  not  sorry?"  she  asked,  with  a  painful 
little  smile.  He  looked  up  with  a  quick  move.  "Sorry, 
Lucille?"  he  said,  "I  can  find  no  words  to  tell 
you." 

She  trembled  under  his  touch,  and  they  looked  at 
each  other  a  moment,  he  as  one  whose  mind  is  stupefied, 
she  with  eyes  betraying  the  fire  in  her  heart.  With  a 
soft  word  of  endearment  he  reached  and  drew  her  to 
him. 

213 


Wallannah 

"Metier,"  she  sobbed,  clutching  his  hand 
convulsively  with  both  of  hers ;  "I  thought  to  have  you 
all  for  myself  when  you  came  back.  I  watched  for 
your  return  to  me  as  I  never  thought  I  could  for  any 
man's  coming.  I  had  pictured  all  that  you  would  be 
to  me,  and  all  that  I  would  try  to  be  to  you :  I  did  not 
know  it  would  end  like  this !" 

"Has  it  ended?"  he  asked.  "If  you  do  come  back, 
you  will  find  me  here  at  my  post  of  duty :  if  you  stay 
there,  when  my  work  is  done  I  will  come  to  you." 

She  raised  her  head.  "Do  you  love  me  enough 
for  that?"  she  asked,  a  smile  trembling  through  her 
tears. 

"I  love  you  more  than  all  else  in  the  wide,  wide 
world.  Wherever  you  may  go,  my  love  will  take 
me." 

"Even  unto  the  world's  end?" 

"To  the  end  of  all,  my  queen." 

With  a  rustle  of  her  silken  skirts  she  moved  closer 
to  him  and  her  hands  rested  on  his  shoulders.  She 
began  speaking  in  a  voice  so  soft  and  so  sweet  that 
Motier's  reason,  already  overcome  by  the  woman's 
maddening  beauty,  yielded  to  the  wild  wish  to  do 
anything,  no  matter  what,  that  she  might  ask  him. 
"Would  you  say  to  me,  dearest,"  she  asked,  "  'Whither 
thou  goest,  I  will  go;  and  where  thou  lodgest,  I  will 
lodge :  thy  people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my 
God'?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  softly.  Then,  "  'Where  thou 
diest,  I  will  die,  and  there  will  I  be  buried.'  " 

"Then,"  she  went  on,  "would  you  love  me,  comfort 
me,  honor,  and  keep  me  in  sickness  and  in  health  ?" 

214 


A  Temptation  that  Went  Astray 

"Yes,  even  unto  death." 

"Then,"  she  said,  running  her  soft  fingers  through 
the  hair  above  his  temple,  "if  you  love  me  as  you  say, 
grant  me  one  little  boon." 

"Anything  you  ask,"  he  said,  stroking  her  cheek 
with  his  hand. 

A  minute  passed  before  she  answered.  He  could 
feel  her  warm  breath  upon  his  cheek.  He  knew  that 
her  whole  woman's  soul  was  in  the  thoughts  that 
surged  through  her  brain.  With  a  fierce,  mad  joy  he 
felt  that  she  was  his ;  she,  queenly  and  beautiful  above 
all  the  women  of  the  earth,  with  her  grace  and  with 
her  wondrous  fascination,  she  was  his,  all  his,  to  love 
and  to  cherish  to  their  life's  end.  Yet  she,  who  held 
him  powerless  in  the  bonds  of  their  love,  hesitated  to 
ask  him  one  more  question. 

He  spoke  again,  "Ask  what  you  will,"  he  said, 
kissing  her  cheek,  "and  I  will  do  it." 

"Motier,"  she  said,  "it  may  be  beyond  your  power 
to  do  what  I  ask.  If  it  is,  tell  me;  and  —  oh!  Motier, 
it  would  break  my  heart!" 

"What  is  it,  dearest?"  he  asked. 

She  raised  her  head  until  she  could  see  his  face. 
He  smiled  as  he  had  that  night  in  the  hallway  by  her 
door,  tenderly,  and  with  a  great  love  in  his  eyes.  "Will 
you  go  with  me  to-morrow  ?"  she  asked,  softly.  "Think 
of  it,  Motier ;  we  would  be  on  the  ocean  for  days  and 
days.  You  would  be  mine,  and  the  court,  the  army  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  world  would  be  so  far  away  that  we 
should  forget  all  these  things  and  live  for  each  other. 
Will  you  go?" 

A  quick  light  leaped  into  his  eyes,  and  the  blood 

215 


Wallannah 

in  his  veins  seemed  afire.  "Do  you  realize  what  that 
would  mean?"  he  asked,  struggling  to  command  his 
voice. 

"I  realize  it  all,"  she  said,  clasping  her  hands  tightly 
before  her.  "But  I  love  you,  I  cannot  go  without  you ! 
I  give  you  my  heart  and  my  soul,  Motier  —  everything 
—  I  give  you  everything,  even  life  itself,  if  need  be; 
and  ask  of  you  only  that  you  come  with  me  and  love 
me."  Her  voice  sank  into  a  whisper,  but  such  a 
tremulous,  impassioned  whisper  had  never  before 
sounded  in  his  ears. 

Motier  sat  staring  at  the  gleaming  eyes  of  the 
tiger's  head  upon  the  floor.  The  boldness  of  Lucille's 
plan  had  made  him  speechless. 

She  watched  him  as  a  gamester  watches  the  casting 
of  the  die.  Her  face  was  pale  and  the  knot  of  ribbon 
on  her  corsage  rose  and  fell  in  uncertain  measure  with 
the  tumult  that  raged  beneath  it.  She  knew  the  forces 
that  she  had  set  to  work  in  Motier's  mind;  she  knew 
that  on  one  side  was  duty  and  honor,  and  on  the  other 
love  and  —  no,  not  that  word !  but  love,  and  love  only. 
She  watched  the  fight  until  she  felt  that  she  had  won 
the  victory. 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  with  one  hand  thrust  into  his 
bosom  and  the  other  tightly  clinched  behind  him.  His 
head  was  bowed  and  his  face  hard  and  set.  As  he 
walked  slowly  backward  and  forward  under  the  light 
of  the  clustered  candles,  Lucille  knew  that  she  had  won 
him,  and  the  thought  made  her  brain  whirl.  Esther's 
guitar  lay  at  the  end  of  the  divan;  and,  scarcely 
thinking  what  she  did,  Lucille  picked  it  up  and  ran  her 
fingers  across  the  strings.    Motier  still  paced  the  floor, 

216 


A  Temptation  that  Went  Astray 

but  a  new  look  came  into  his  eyes  at  the  sound  of  the 
music. 

Bending  forward  so  that  the  Hght  fell  upon  her 
face  she  began  playing,  very  softly,  a  Spanish  air,  slow 
and  sensuous,  like  a  siren's  witching  song.  A  smile 
was  on  her  lips  as  she  struck  the  closing  chords ;  then, 
watching  Motier's  face  as  he  turned  toward  her  in  his 
walking,  she  swung  into  one  of  those  melodies  that 
Satan  wrings  from  a  composer's  soul  for  the  tempting 
of  man  when  all  else,  women,  wine,  and  the  odor  of 
incense  do  not  avail. 

Motier  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  the  tiger-skin. 
He  raised  his  head  quickly,  and  Lucille  caught  a 
gleam  in  his  eyes  that  frightened  her.  Her  fingers 
wavered  and  struck  a  harsh  discord  and  the  music 
ceased  abruptly.  Motier  walked  slowly  toward  her. 
Wondering,  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face. 
A  chair  stood  in  front  of  her;  and  Motier,  resting 
his  hands  upon  its  back,  stood  looking  into  her 
eyes. 

She  laughed  nervously.  "Why  do  you  look  so 
strangely,  Motier?"  she  asked,  forcing  a  smile  to  her 
lips. 

"I  am  thinking,"  he  answered  in  a  cold,  strained 
voice,  "whether  or  not  I  should  kill  you." 

She  gave  a  little  start.  "Why  Motier,"  she  cried, 
the  color  leaving  her  cheeks,  "you — you  talk  as  though 
you  were  going  mad." 

"No,  I  am  not  going  mad.  I  have  just  learned  that 
I  have  been  mad  for  a  long  time." 

"But,  Motier,  I  cannot  understand  you.  Why  do 
you  look  so?    What  has  happened?" 

217 


Wallannah 

"You  started  to  piay  something  a  moment  ago,"  he 
said,  slowly,  with  emphasis  on  every  word ;  "but  you 
stopped  before  you  finished.  You  learned  that  little 
song  from  John  Ashburne." 

"John  Ashburne !"  The  guitar  fell  to  the  floor  and 
lay  there,  its  strings  vibrating  in  discord.  "What  do 
you  know  of  John  Ashburne  ?" 

"I  am  the  one  —  " 

With  a  low  anguished  cry  she  rose  and  staggered 
toward  him.  "Oh!  Motier,"  she  cried,  standing  in 
front  of  him,  her  hands  pressed  tightly  over  the  bow 
on  her  corsage.  "You  are  —  you  are  —  "  But  she 
went  no  further. 

"I  am,"  he  answered,  with  a  queer,  hard  ring  in  his 
voice.  "And  what  is  more,"  he  continued,  slowly,  "I 
have  sometimes  thought  that  I  would  do  the  world  a 
kindness  to  kill  the  woman  who  ruined  Jack's  life.  I 
knew  him  better  than  you  did,  and  I  say  to  you  now 
that  a  nobler  man  never  lived.  As  to  the  woman  who 
drove  him  to  his  death,  I  can  say  only  that  she  was  true 
to  nothing  on  earth  nor  in  heaven.  Has  she  any  words 
to  justify  herself?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  wavering  a  moment,  sank 
upon  one  knee  and  raised  her  terror-stricken  face  to 
his.  "Motier!  Don't  kill  me!  I  did  not  know  that 
you  were  his  friend ;  and  I  love  you  so  —  " 

He  interrupted  her  with  a  grating  laugh.  "Stand 
up,"  he  said,  harshly.  "For  the  sake  of  what  you  have 
been  to  me,  I  will  do  you  no  harm.  I  can  only  thank 
God  that  you  played  that  opening  chord  before  I  came 
to  you  to  say  yes.  For  now  that  all  is  over  I  will 
admit  that  I  had  resolved  to  go  with  you,  to  throw 

2l8 


eC': 


■-.^f.  •  ^  \ft*^  - 


AC    r^l.\Clt\r\J'\. 


"Oh!     MUTIER,"    SHE  CRIED,    STANDING  IN   ERONT  UE   HIM. 


A  Temptation  that  Went  Astra)'- 

away  for  you  honor,  self-respect,  and  all  else  that  a 
man  holds  dear." 

Staring  at  him  with  a  look  of  agonized  appeal  in 
her  eyes  she  leaned  against  the  table  for  support. 

He  spoke  with  evident  effort.  "I  scarcely  know 
what  to  say  to  you,"  he  said.  "Until  to-night  I  thought 
you  all  that  a  true-hearted  woman  should  be.  But  now, 
knowing  that  your  heartlessness  and  duplicity  brought 
Jack  to  his  death,  harsh  though  the  words  may  seem,  I 
cannot  even  call  you  friend." 

She  lowered  her  eyes  to  the  floor,  and  drew  in  a 
sharp,  quivering  breath.  "Motier,  don't  talk  like  that," 
she  pleaded ;  "can't  you  see  that  I  cannot  bear  it !" 

He  was  unmoved. 

"You  deceived  Jack,"  he  went  on,  giving  no  heed 
to  her  interruption  ;  "and  you  have  deceived  me.  Could 
anything  make  me  believe  that  you  would  accord  me 
better  treatment  than  you  did  him?  Were  I  to  join  my 
life  with  yours,  could  I  forget  that  you  once  loved 
another  man  as  you  now  love  me?  and  could  I  forget 
what  turned  that  man's  love-dream  to  a  depth  of  misery 
that  your  own  soul  could  never  measure  ?" 

He  waited  for  an  answer. 

She  stood  still,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor.  "Motier," 
she  said,  in  a  choked  voice,  "I  know  all  that  happened 
in  that  old  life.  But  I  have  left  it  all  behind  me.  And 
it  —  it  was  not  what  th"5'  world  thinks  it  was.  Were 
Jack  alive  now,  he  would  tell  you.  But  we  —  we  did 
not  understand  each  other.  That  was  all.  I  never 
dreamed  that  he  would  kill  himself.  He  may  have 
suflFered ;  but  I  never  knew  it.  I  saw  him  sometimes 
after  our  separation,  and  he  looked  cheerful,  and  even 

2iq 


Wallannah 

happy,  almost  to  the  last  day.  I  did  not  know :  I  —  I 
thought  that  he  didn't  care.  Even  when  they  told  me 
he  was  dead,  I  could  not  believe  that  I  was  to  blame. 
But  truly,  Motier,  he  misunderstood.  The  only  wrong 
I  ever  did  him  was  to  marry  him  before  I  learned  the 
meaning  of  love.  There  v/as  no  one  else :  God  is  my 
witness  !  But  he  —  O  Heaven !  I  do  not  know  what 
he  thought !" 

The  glitter  still  lurked  in  Motier's  eyes;  but  his 
voice  was  quiet,  and  even  tender. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  have  told  me  this,"  he  said, 
"yet,  candidly,  Lucille,  it  does  not  leave  you  blameless. 
There  is  still  much  which  you  cannot  deny.  You 
repeatedly  dined  with  men  whom  Jack  had  forbidden 
you  to  entertain.  You  surrounded  yourself  with  a 
coterie  of  young  lovers,  and  defied  Jack  to  put  a  stop 
to  your  flirtations  with  them.    Can  you  deny  this?" 

Coming  from  Motier's  lips,  and  in  his  cold,  even 
tones,  her  arraignment  had  been  a  terrible  one.  Before 
he  had  finished  she  was  sobbing  convulsively.  He 
watched  her  for  a  long  time ;  and,  as  he  watched,  the 
look  in  his  eyes  softened.  He  bit  his  lip  and  looked 
away  from  her.    After  a  moment  he  turned  again. 

"Lucille,"  he  said,  kindly. 

Her  woman's  ear  caught  the  tremor  in  his  voice, 
and  she  looked  quickly  up  at  him. 

Outwardly  he  was  very  calm. 

"I  have  had  but  two  loves  in  my  life,"  he  said, 
leaving  the  chair  and  moving  toward  her.  "One  was 
my  love  for  the  friend  who  was  all  to  me  that  one  man 
can  be  to  another.  The  other  love  was  my  love  for  you. 
I   can   say   but   one   thing  now.      I   will   leave  your 

220 


A  Temptation  that  Went  Astray 

treatment  of  Jack  in  the  hands  of  One  whose  place  it 
is  to  judge;  I  will  overlook  the  deception  you  have 
practiced  on  me;  I  will  try  to  forget  the  proposition 
you  have  made  to  me  to-night.  I  will  do  all  of  this 
for  the  sake  of  the  love  which  has  bound  us  together. 
For  the  future  I  hold  forth  a  friendship  that  is  yours 
always  and  whenever  you  may  need  it.  Half  an  hour 
ago,  when  you  played  Jack  Ashburne's  love  song,  I 
could  not  have  said  this ;  but  now  that  I  know  you 
better,  I  cannot  part  from  you  as  I  would  have  left  you 
then." 

He  turned  away  from  her  and  walked  toward  the 
middle  of  the  room.  His  face  was  drawn  and  pale,  and 
his  eyes  were  heavy  with  the  weariness  of  his  inward 
struggle. 

Slowly,  very  slowly,  Lucille  raised  her  head.  Her 
eyes,  seeking  Motier's  face,  met  his,  fixed  upon  her 
calmly  and  without  a  sign  of  anger.  With  quick 
instinct  she  saw  in  his  eyes  something  of  the  look  of 
the  old  days. 

"Motier,"  she  faltered. 

"Yes?"  he  answered. 

"You  are  going  away  from  me?" 

"Yes,  Lucille;    I  can  do  nothing  else." 

"Oh  !  Motier,  you  cannot  —  "  Her  words  broke 
off  in  a  sob. 

He  drew  nearer.  "I  did  not  hear  you,"  he  said 
gently. 

She  made  a  step  toward  him.  Her  hands  were 
clasped  tightly  before  her,  and  her  breath  was  agitated. 
Always  beautiful  in  Motier's  eyes,  she  now  seemed 
lovelier  than  man  ever  dreamed  that  woman  could  be. 

221 


Wallannah 

"Don't  leave  me,  Motier!"  she  pleaded,  with  a 
pitiful  little  break  in  her  voice.  "If  you  go  away  what 
will  be  left  for  me?  I  love  you,  darling!  love  you 
more  than  I  ever  could  have  loved  Jack.  You're  all 
that  I  have  to  Hve  for.  Keep  me  here,  Motier !  Keep 
me  with  you !  If  you  ask  it,  I'll  not  go  to  Boston. 
Only  tell  me  that  you  want  me,  and  I'll  stay  here  with 
you.     Motier,  I  beg  of  you,  don't  leave  me !" 

He  seemed  to  hesitate  before  answering.  His  eyes 
were  looking  far  beyond  her,  and  he  saw  nothing  save 
what  was  in  his  mind's  eye  of  her  in  the  other  days. 
But  when  he  spoke,  his  voice  was  firm  and  quiet. 

"After  all  that  I  have  told  you,"  he  said,  "you  know 
what  my  answer  must  be.  We  have  indulged  our 
madness  long  enough.     I  must  go." 

"But  Motier,  you  will  come  back!" 

He  shook  his  head.  "As  a  friend  I  may,  if  you 
need  me.    Otherwise,  never." 

She  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  moved  them  with  an 
inarticulate  word,  then  flung  herself  sobbing  into  his 
arms. 

Almost  roughly  he  tried  to  free  himself  from  her. 
But  she  clung  the  more  closely  to  him. 

"Motier!"  she  cried,  "don't  tell  me  that:  you 
cannot  mean  it !"  Then  she  raised  her  head  and  looked 
into  his  face.  "I  cannot  let  you  go,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  "If  you  have  even  a  spark  of  the  old  love  in 
your  heart,  keep  me  with  you.  Let  the  things  you  have 
heard  lie  in  the  ashes  of  the  past.  You  loved  me  once, 
you  can  love  me  again ;  and  I  —  oh !  darling,  I  cannot 
live  without  you !"  She  was  talking  rapidly  and  with 
feverish  excitement,  but  her  voice  and  her  eyes  and  all 

222 


A  Temptation  that  Went  Astray 

her  wondrous  beauty  were  fast  throwing  the  spell  of 
their  fascination  about  Motier.  "You  know  how  you 
loved  me,"  she  went  on ;  "and  you  know  how  we  used 
to  talk  of  the  days  to  come,  when  we  should  be 
together,  you  and. I,  and  away  from  all  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Have  you  forgotten  those  words  of  yours? 
Have  you  forgotten  everything  that  made  those  days 
so  happy?    Tell  me,  darling,  have  you  forgotten  all?" 

Motier's  hand  trembled  as  with  an  effort  he 
unbound  the  arms  that  were  clasped  about  him.  How 
easy  would  it  have  been  to  give  up  the  fight !  His 
senses  were  whirling  with  the  mad  joy  of  that  last 
embrace.  The  room,  the  mirrors  and  the  lights  seemed 
to  sway  about  him,  then  to  fade  away  in  a  confused 
glamor.  For  Lucille,  fairer  than  ever,  had  been  in 
his  arms,  pleading  for  his  love.  He  felt  in  that  moment 
as  though  all  in  life  was  centered  about  her.  Her 
upturned  face  was  close  to  his;  and  a  terrible  force 
seemed  impelling  him  to  clasp  her  closer  to  him,  to 
cover  her  face  with  kisses,  and  to  yield  all  that  he  had 
won  in  the  last  fierce  burst  of  the  flames  that  still 
flickered  above  the  ruins  of  the  old  love. 

But  even  then  he  remembered  the  gulf  that  his 
manhood  had  placed  between  them. 

"It  is  useless  —  useless. '  he  said,  hoarsely.  "I  am 
going,  for  your  sake  at  much  aa  for  mine.  God  knows 
I  wish  there  might  be  another  way  out  of  it ;  but  there 
is  not.    It  is  best  —  I  cannot  stay  now." 

"But  Motier  — " 

"Yes?" 

"Have  you  no  heart  to  —  '* 

"Lucille  1" 

223 


Wallannah 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  meaning  of  his  tone 
nor  of  his  look. 

Tears  were  in  her  eyes,  but  she  smiled  bravely 
through  them,  a  pitiful  smile,  with  lips  all  a-tremble, 
that  went  deeper  into  Motier's  heart  than  any  words 
could  have  gone. 

"If  you  are  going,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand 
to  him,  "good  night  —  and  good-bye !" 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  for  a  brief  moment. 
"Good-bye,"  he  said,  huskily. 

Then  he  turned  and  left  her  standing  there.  At  the 
door  he  stopped  and  looked  back.  He  saw,  standing 
upon  the  tawny  tiger-skin,  a  figure  in  amber  silk,  a  pair 
of  bare  white  shoulders  shaking  with  grief,  a  bowed 
head  crowned  with  a  wealth  of  dark  hair,  and  beyond 
her,  on  the  floor,  the  guitar  that  had  quivered  with 
Jack  Ashburne's  love  song.  A  wave  of  regret  passed 
over  him  as  he  thought  of  all  that  this  lovely  woman 
had  been  to  him  in  the  days  that  were  gone.  He 
hesitated  a  moment  and  made  a  step  toward  her.  But 
Ashburne's  face  seemed  to  come  before  him,  and 
Ashburne's  voice  seemed  to  sound  in  his  ears. 

With  the  old  merciless  gleam  in  his  eyes,  he  turned 
and  went  down  the  stairs  to  the  governor's  council  of 
war. 


224 


Men-at-Arms  a-Marching 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Men-at-Arms  a-Marching 

OTIER  DU  VAL  had  long  been  an 
admirer  of  William  Tryon.  As  a  guest  in 
the  palace  the  young  Frenchman  had  met 
with  naught  but  courtesy  at  the  governor's 
hands ;  and  a  warm  friendship  had  sprung  up  between 
the  two.  It  was  this  feeling  which  had  led  Du  Val  to 
accept  as  an  honor  his  appointment  on  the  executive's 
military  staff.  But  that  was  before  he  learned  that 
Tryon  was  a  two-sided  man,  and  that  one  of  his  sides 
was  not  good  to  look  upon.  This  last  fact  was  borne 
in  upon  Motier  by  slow  degrees,  yet  with  convincing 
force,  when  Tryon  the  statesman  merged  into  Tryon 
the  soldier. 

Du  Val's  revised  opinion  of  his  Excellency  had  its 
birth  in  the  ten  o'clock  council  on  the  night  that  he  left 
Lucille  in  the  upper  parlor.  The  session  was  a  long 
one.  Motier,  whose  even  temperament  allowed  him  to 
look  with  peculiar  coolness  into  problems  of  intrigue 
and  of  war,  felt  considerable  surprise  at  the  frequent 
eruptions  of  Tryon's  temper.  To  Motier's  mind  the 
governor  looked  hotly  upon  matters  which  required 
extreme  discretion,  and  gave  but  scant  heed  to  the 
minor  questions  which  should  always  enter  into  the 
least  calculations  of  a  man  of  judgment.  Motier's 
acquaintance  with  the  soldiers  of  France  was  a  wide 

225 


Wallannah 

one,  and  generals  and  marshals  of  world-wide  repute 
had  been  among  the  young  man's  closest  associates. 
He  could  look  upon  Tryon  and  see  that  this  man  was 
not  a  true  soldier.  Conceding  that  the  governor 
possessed  courage  and  indomitable  force,  it  still  left 
him  without  the  higher  qualifications  that  every  soldier 
regards  as  his  noblesse  oblige.  Of  honor  he  had  little ; 
and  of  the  judgment  that  puts  statecraft  and  diplomacy 
before  the  rule  of  the  sword  he  had  none. 

Du  Val,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  within  the  little 
red-coated  circle  that  made  a  dash  of  color  in  the 
gloom  of  the  Hall  of  Audience,  watched  his  superior 
officer  from  beneath  half-closed  eyelids.  He  saw 
Tryon  swayed  from  one  point  to  another  by 
vindictive  hatred  of  his  foemen ;  and  against  this 
hatred  argument  availed  nothing.  The  governor's 
sole  thought  was  fight.  Motier,  with  something 
approaching  scorn,  saw  that  the  rights  of  the  people, 
the  blood  and  the  homes  of  patriots,  and  the  lives  of 
the  royal  soldiery  had  no  part  in  the  consideration  of 
the  issue  at  hand.  Tryon  said,  "These  fellows  are 
rebels,  their  views  and  their  acts  are  treason;"  which 
made  an  excellent  cloak  for  the  governor's  personal 
animosities  and  seemed  a  brave  excuse  for  his  own 
self-glorification.  But  Motier  had  allied  himself  with 
the  governor,  and  his  knowledge  of  the  man's  character 
had  come  too  late.  Unable  to  turn  back,  he  had  but  to 
follow  his  chieftain  whither  he  went. 

On  the  twenty- fourth  day  of  April  Governor  Tryon, 
with  three  hundred  men  at  his  back,  began  his  march 
from  New  Bern  to  the  camp  of  the  Regulators,  nearly 
two  hundred  miles  to  the  northwest.    Small  though  his 

226 


Men-at-Arms  a-Marching 

■force,  Tryon  went  forth  like  a  leader  of  invincible 
legions. 

Some  of  the  spirit  of  the  thing  infused  itself  into 
Motier's  blood  as  he  sat  upon  his  horse  close  beside 
Doctor  Boggs  (who  was  now  staff  surgeon),  and 
watched  the  fluttering  banners,  the  foam-flecked  horses, 
the  gleaming  lines  of  scarlet  coats  and  the  rythmic 
swing  of  booted  legs,  and  back  of  that  the  dull  grey  and 
brown  of  the  ununiformed  militia.  He  heard  the 
screech  and  rattle  and  boom  of  the  drum  corps.  His 
ear  caught  the  "clump,  clump,  clump"  of  the  feet  of 
marching  men.  The  air  was  filled  with  the  murmuring 
and  the  shouting  of  the  people  and  the  quick,  sharp 
ring  of  officers'  commands.  And,  after  it  all,  came  the 
surly  rumble  of  cannon  and  caisson.  In  his  throat  was 
the  choking  of  the  rising  dust,  and  his  nostrils  opened 
to  welcome  the  scent  of  musty  uniforms,  the  smell  of 
leathern  trappings  and  the  odor  of  the  stables  that  still 
clung  to  the  horses.  These  carried  him  back  to  the 
days  when  he  and  Ashburne  had  mingled  with  Jack's 
old  English  regiment;  and  those  were  good  days  to 
remember. 

The  governor  and  his  staff  swung  into  their  places ; 
the  glitter  and  the  glare  and  the  sounds  and  the  smells 
seemed  brighter  and  clearer  and  closer;  the  men 
turned  their  faces  to  the  west  and  with  a  crashing  salute 
from  the  cannon  the  little  army  started  for  the  front. 

For  days  and  nights  and  nights  and  days  did  they 
march  and  encamp,  decamp  and  march  again,  over 
roads  and  through  forests,  by  riv^er  and  by  brook ;  and, 
as  they  marched,  others  came  to  swell  their  ranks. 
Sometimes  the  army,  emerging  from  a  dense  wood, 

227 


Wallannah 

came  face  to  face  with  a  motley  company  of  volunteers 
cheering  and  waving  their  caps.  Again  some 
quick-eyed  woodsman  would  see  afar  the  glimmer  of 
arms  and  the  cloud  of  dust  that  overhung  some 
detachment  approaching  in  the  distance.  Thus  came 
the  reinforcements  from  the  counties  Craven  and 
Carteret,  from  Dobbs  and  from  New  Hanover,  from 
Johnson  and  from  Onslow  and  from  Wake;  and  the 
cheers  were  loud  and  long  when  Bullock  dashed  among 
them  with  his  company  of  light  horse,  when  Neale 
swung  into  line  with  his  band  of  sturdy  riflemen,  and 
when  Moore  toiled  into  the  column  with  his  little 
battery  of  artillery. 

There  were  men  within  the  ranks  whom  Motier 
knew  well  before  the  three  weeks'  march  was  over. 
Officers  were  there  who  fought  beneath  the  governor's 
standard  because  they  thought  Tryon  a  man  of  honor. 
He  had  told  how  he  abhorred  the  shedding  of  blood ; 
that  his  purpose  was  but  to  make  a  show  of  force  to 
intimidate  the  rebels ;  that  he  would  negotiate  for 
peace  until  peace  was  assured  or  found  impossible ;  and 
that  not  until  reason  and  persuasion  were  worn  to  the 
bare  bone  would  a  grain  of  powder  be  burned.  So  it 
was  that  brother  marched  against  brother,  father 
against  son,  son  against  father ;  for  they  were  honest 
and  true  and  knew  nothing  of  their  leader's  guile. 
But  Motier  did  know;  for  he  had  seen  the  skeleton 
that  grim  and  soulless  stood  within  that  outer  man. 

Du  Val  and  Doctor  Boggs,  being  tent-mates,  were 
much  together;  and  as  the  masters,  so  were  the 
servants.  Boggs  had  with  him  the  gaunt  son  of  a  Gold 
Coast  chieftain,  who,  seventeen  years  before,  had  fallen 

228 


Men-at-Arms  a-Marching 

with  the  burning  stairs  in  the  Maynard  house.  Motier 
was  attended  by  a  hideous  apparition  mounted  on  a 
speckled  pony.  The  pony  was  Tonta's,  the  servant's 
figure  was  Tonta's,  and  so  were  the  keen  eyes  and  the 
well-cut  features ;  but  the  color  of  the  face  w^as  scarlet 
and  black,  and  the  style  of  the  garments  was  the 
picturesque  mode  of  savagery.  More  than  this,  the 
only  name  that  brought  its  response  was  Oocheecha. 
For  Tonta  was  in  war-paint,  and  with  it  were  his 
warrior's  garb  and  title.  This  was  because  a  war  was 
on  foot,  and  furthermore  because  he  knew  that  Captain 
Neale  could  never  forget  the  face  of  the  boy  who,  but 
a  few  weeks  before,  had  helped  deliver  him  into 
Maynard's  hands.  Motier,  understanding  this, 
preferred  the  ridicule  of  his  attendant's  unique 
appearance  to  having  the  faithful  fellow  driven  away 
or  hanged. 

But  the  ways  of  Tonta  and  the  ways  of  Oocheecha 
were  one  and  the  same,  and  the  Indian's  favorite 
hunting  ground  was  the  outfit  of  the  doctor's  negro. 
Quack.  This  ebon  worthy  rode  a  horse  whose 
grandsire  and  granddam  came  from  Europe  with 
Graafenreidt  in  1709.  He  was  the  oldest  horse  in  the 
Carolinas,  and  his  legs  bowed  outward  when  he  walked 
and  inward  when  he  stood.  Yet  Quack  thought  him  a 
Bucephalus,  and  every  inch  of  leather  upon  him  bore 
a  gaudy  tassel  or  tag.  The  saddle  was  fringed  with 
deerskin  thongs,  and  from  these  swung  the  tinware  of 
the  doctor's  camp-equipment. 

Quack's  horse-regalia  struck  Oocheecha's  eye  as 
soon  as  it  loomed  into  view,  and  day  by  day  the  shadow 
of  the  spectacle  grew  less,  until   Quack  arose  in  a 

229 


Wallannah 

mighty  wrath  and  the  sounds  of  that  wrath  smote  upon 
the  governor's  ears. 

Boggs  and  Motier  and  even  Quack  himself  tried  to 
stay  the  gubernatorial  edict;  but  their  words  were  as 
raindrops  'gainst  the  wind.  Oocheecha  stole  out  in  the 
darkness  of  night  and  with  him  went  Quack's  ruffled 
shirt-front,  untied  from  its  owner's  bosom  while 
dreams  enchained  his  fancy. 

Motier  and  Tonta  met  but  once  more  during  the 
march,  and  that  was  on  the  third  night  after  the 
Indian's  escape  from  the  camp.  This  happened  in  the 
forest  by  the  side  of  a  spring  that  Motier  had  found  the 
night  before. 

Tonta,  coming  as  from  the  depths  of  the  earth, 
stood  before  Du  Val  as  he  rose  from  drinking  the  clear 
water.    "Sequa  want  see  Caiheek,"  he  said,  briefly. 

"Who  is  Sequa?"  asked  Motier. 

"Sequa  daughter  Tetah  —  Tonta  mother." 

"Where  is  your  mother?" 

"Sequa  here,"  came  a  soft  voice  behind  him. 

Motier  turned.  An  Indian  woman,  tastefully 
dressed  in  a  short-fringed  skirt  and  wearing  beaded 
leggings  and  moccasins,  stood  upon  a  fallen  tree  close 
at  his  elbow.  About  her  shoulders  was  thrown  a  red 
shawl,  and  her  long  black  hair  fell  from  beneath  a  little 
spangled  cap  of  scarlet  satin. 

"Tonta's  Caiheek  ?"  she  asked,  musically. 

"I  am,"  answered  Du  Val,  looking  into  her 
handsome  bronzed  face.     "What  do  you  wish?" 

Her  English  was  better  than  Tonta's,  and  she 
smiled  as  she  talked.  "Tonta's  Cailieek  help  Tonta," 
she  said,  stepping  down  from  the  log  and  moving 

230 


Men-at-Arms  a-Marching 

closer  to  Motier.  "Now  Sequa  help  Tonta's  Caiheek. 
You  go  to  big  hills.  Indian  in  big  hills  hate  governor 
—  kill  you  for  governor's  friend.  Indian  on  war-path, 
but  Sequa  help  you.  Take  this,"  she  added,  holding 
out  a  bracelet  of  beads  joined  by  a  silver  star,  "for 
Sequa  love  Caiheek.  Show  star  to  Tetah  —  big  chief. 
Tetah  see  star  and  know  Caiheek  friend  of  Tonta, 
friend  of  Sequa.     Save  Caiheek,  and  Sequa  glad." 

Motier  took  the  bracelet  in  his  hand  and  fumbled 
awkwardly  with  the  clasp. 

With  a  little  laugh  Sequa  took  it  from  him.  "Sequa 
put  it  on,"  she  said.  She  took  his  hand  and  unbottoning 
his  sleeve  fastened  the  circlet  about  his  wrist.  As  she 
did  so  he  noticed  that  her  hands  were  small  and 
well-kept  and  that  her  arm,  bare  to  the  elbow,  was  soft 
and  shapely. 

Before  she  left,  Sequa  bent  her  head  to  Motier's 
ear.  "Sequa  know  Caiheek  better  than  Caiheek  guess," 
she  whispered.  "Some  day  Sequa  come  to  Caiheek, 
and  Caiheek  know  why  Sequa  love  him."  With 
another  low  laugh  and  with  a  smile  over  her  shoulder 
the  Indian  woman  darted  into  the  bushes  and  was  gone. 

Motier  turned  to  Tonta.  "Your  mother  is  a  very 
handsome  woman,"  he  said.  "How  does  she  keep  her 
beauty?" 

"Sequa  Indian,"  was  the  quick  response,  "but 
Sequa  got  friends.  Sequa  rich."  And  Tonta  seemed 
proud  of  his  mother's  distinction. 

Indeed,  as  Motier  afterward  learned,  the  woman 
Sequa,  whom  her  own  people  called  the  beautiful,  had 
held  in  the  grasp  of  her  little  hand  the  fates  of  some 
whose  places  were  high  in  the  world's  esteem,, 

231 


Wallannah 

At  the  river  Enoe  the  governor's  forces  were 
increased  by  a  motley  crowd  of  ex-officials  from 
Hillsborough.  At  their  head  was  Colonel  Fanning,  the 
despised  of  the  people.  Even  Tryon,  who  kept  the 
man  for  the  uses  to  which  he  put  him,  liked  him  as  little 
as  did  any  one  else. 

Hoping  to  control  for  a  favorite  of  his  own  the 
election  of  Husband's  successor  in  the  legislature,  the 
governor  had  planned  to  spend  several  days  in  the  camp 
on  the  Enoe,  within  easy  reach  of  Hillsborough.  But 
a  courier  dashed  into  camp  one  day  with  intelligence 
of  the  capture  of  the  governor's  powder  train,  en  route 
from  Charleston.  Close  upon  this  news  came  the 
report  that  the  Regulators  were  assembled  in  great 
force  a  few  miles  ahead  of  them.  Therefore,  Tryon 
made  haste  to  change  his  plans.  Breaking  camp  the 
next  morning  the  army  marched  from  the  Enoe,  and 
crossing  the  Haw  encamped  upon  its  farther  bank. 

On  the  next  day  Motier  began  to  see  more  clearly 
the  brutal  determination  of  Tryon.  The  two  were 
together  in  the  commander's  tent  when  a  messenger 
brought  a  petition  from  the  Regulators,  who  were  in 
camp  but  a  short  distance  in  front.  Tryon  read  the 
communication,  and  with  a  short  laugh  threw  it  to 
Motier.  The  governor  turned  to  the  messenger.  "I 
will  answer  that  at  noon  to-morrow,"  he  said,  curtly. 
And  that  was  the  end  of  that  appeal.  Motier  read  it 
through.  It  prayed  for  redress  of  certain  grievances, 
expressing  a  willingness  to  disperse  peaceably  if  their 
prayer  were  granted,  but  making  the  firm  stand  that 
only  by  this  course  could  the  governor  avert  bloodshed. 
To  Motier's  mind  the  petition  was  a  fair  one,  and 

232 


Men-at-Arms  a-Marching 

certain  propositions  within  it  were  worthy  of 
consideration.  But  Tryon,  after  his  dismissal  of  the 
messenger,  left  his  tent,  humming  a  popular  song, 
which  he  interrupted  to  pester  Captain  Moore  with 
some  irrelevant  questions  about  the  range  of  his 
artillery.  Motier  knew  well  enough  what  Tryon's 
answer  would  be ;  and  choking  down  his  disgust  he  left 
the  governor's  tent  and  went  to  his  own. 

Boggs,  sitting  on  the  ground  with  his  back  against 
an  empty  box,  was  smoking  a  pipe  and  playing  with  a 
kitten  that  Quack  had  abducted  from  some  farm-house 
along  the  line  of  march. 

The  doctor  looked  up  as  Motier  entered.  "I'm 
playing  with  William  Tryon,"  he  said,  gravely.  Then, 
to  the  kitten,  "William,  show  the  gentleman  your  pretty 
tricks."  The  doctor  began  rubbing  the  feline's  back. 
"That's  right,  William;  you're  a  fine  fellow.  Purr 
away :  then  tell  us  how  nice  we  are  and  how  good  and 
noble  you  are.    There,  that's  a  dutiful  WilHam." 

Motier  laughed  at  the  absurd  tableau;  but  the 
doctor's  face  was  the  picture  of  gravity.  "Now, 
William,"  he  said,  a  little  sternly,  "I'm  tired  of  rubbing 
your  back :  suppose  we  shake  hands  and  call  each 
other  good  friends." 

Boggs  held  out  his  hand.  Quick  as  a  flash  the 
kitten's  paw  shot  forward  and  its  claws  sank  in  the 
doctor's  palm,  drawing  three  tiny  drops  of  blood, 

Boggs  looked  up.  "That  is  William  Tryon,"  he 
said,  dryly.  "Give  him  what  he  wants,  and  he  purrs. 
Assert  your  own  rights  and  he  strikes  for  blood." 

And  the  doctor  had  a  very  fair  knowledge  of  human 
character. 

233 


Wallannah 


CHAPTER  XX 

The  Battle  of  the  Alamance 

T  dawn  of  the  sixteenth  of  May  the  royal 
troops  moved  forward.  Their  tents  were 
left  standing,  and  the  baggage  wagons, 
with  horses  in  harness,  remained,  suitably 
guarded,  on  the  camping  ground.  The  march  was 
made  in  quick  time  and  without  music.  Skirmishers 
were  thrown  out  to  protect  the  way,  but  the  advance 
met  with  no  opposition.  The  troops  reached  a  point 
five  miles  to  the  westward  of  the  Great  Alamance  on 
the  road  from  Hillsborough  to  Salisbury;  and  the 
governor,  mindful  of  the  things  printed  in  his  book  of 
tactics,  sent  markers  to  the  right  and  to  the  left  to  lay 
out  the  points  of  the  line  of  battle.  Then  the 
companies,  wheeling  and  crossing  obliquely  to  their 
several  positions,  formed  with  the  artillery  in  the 
centre. 

Opposite  the  forces  of  the  crown  and  but  a  half-mile 
from  them  were  the  Regulators,  drawn  up  in  a  ragged 
single  line,  without  semblance  of  military  formation. 

Thus  the  two  armies  stood  at  ease.  The  governor 
counted  in  his  lines  eleven  hundred  men  well  armed 
and  equipped.  The  patriots'  strength  was  in  numbers 
only;  for  their  two  thousand  men,  confident  of  a 
peaceful  outcome  of  the  trouble,  were  half  of  them 

234 


The  Battle  of  the  Alamance 

unarmed,  and  of  the  other  half  few  had  more  than 
enough  powder  and  lead  to  carry  a  man  through  an 
hour's  squirrel  hunt. 

Through  the  morning  numerous  peacemakers 
crossed  and  recrossed  the  space  between  the  lines.  Of 
these  the  most  active  was  Doctor  Caldwell,  a  greatly 
beloved  minister  of  the  gospel,  who  visited  the  governor 
no  less  than  four  times  before  the  battle. 

At  one  of  their  interviews  Tryon,  resting  his  hand 
affectionately  upon  the  other's  shoulder,  said,  "My 
good  Doctor,  I  am  as  anxious  as  you  to  avert  the 
shedding  of  blood.  We  have  troublesome  and  seditious 
adversaries,  but  I  promise  you  not  to  fire  upon  them 
until  I  have  fairly  exhausted  negotiation  in  the  effort 
to  reach  an  amicable  adjustment." 

Yet,  as  the  worthy  ecclesiastic  hastened  aw^ay,  the 
governor,  sitting  upon  his  horse,  scanned  the  line  of 
the  enemy  with  his  glass.  "If  we  concentrate  our  fire 
on  their  centre,"  he  muttered,  "we  may  be  able  to  cut 
them  in  two  and  drive  their  right  wing  off  from  the 
woods.  That  would  give  us  victory  in  half  an  hour." 
Thus  did  Tryon  seek  peace. 

An  hour  before  noon  Doctor  Caldwell  returned  once 
more  on  his  mission.  With  him  was  Robert  Thompson, 
a  man  well  regarded  for  upright  character,  and 
unarmed  and  neutral,  striving  only  to  avert  the 
impending  crisis. 

The  governor  received  Caldwell  coolly.  "I  have 
replied  to  the  ridiculous  petition  of  these  people,"  he 
said,  "and,  after  reminding  them  that  I  had  always 
done  my  duty  toward  them,  and  had  already  gone 
further  than  was  due  to  meet  their  wishes,  I  told  them 

235 


Wallannah 

that  unconditional  surrender  is  the  only  thing  I  can 
consider.  They  must  submit  within  the  hour,  promise 
to  pay  their  taxes,  and  return -to  their  homes;  giving 
us  assurance  that  they  will  interfere  no  more  with  our 
courts  of  justice.  I  can  say  nothing  more  to  you  than 
I  have  said  to  them." 

The  governor,  after  Caldwell's  departure,  began 
pacing  backward  and  forward  before  his  lines.  Motier 
and  his  fellow-aides,  Malcolm  and  'Hawkins,  sat  upon 
their  horses  near  at  hand.  The  royal  troops  still  stood 
at  rest;  and  across  the  field  the  Regulators,  many  of 
their  younger  men  wrestling  and  enjoying  various  other 
athletic  sports,  awaited  the  <iecision  that  would  settle 
the  destiny  of  their  cause. 

A  messenger  approached  the  governor  with  the 
Regulators'  reply  to  his  ultimatum.  "They  answer," 
the  horseman  said,  "that  they  cannot  accept  your 
proposition.  Claiming  that  your  message  is  a  threat, 
they  defy  your  arms,  and  declare  that  if  your  reply  is 
conclusive  their  only  recourse  is  battle." 

Tryon,  smiling  grimly,  dispatched  a  magistrate 
and  one  of  his  staff  officers  with  a  proclamation 
commanding  the  rebels  to  disperse.  The  governor, 
watching  the  enemy's  line,  saw  the  confusion  which 
resulted  when  the  royal  emissaries  arrived.  The  boys 
in  the  ranks  stopped  their  playing;  the  long  thin  line 
became  a  writhing  human  serpent,  darkly  marked  on 
the  green  of  the  meadow  ;  and  with  shouts  and  gestures 
of  anger  and  menace  the  Regulators  began*  surging 
forward. 

Tryon  turned  to  his  aides.  "Hawkins,"  Tie  cried, 
as  he  mounted  his  horse,  "ride  over  and  tell  those 

236 


The  Battle  of  the  Alamance 

people  that  unless  they  deliver  to  us,  at  once,  Husbands, 
Hunter  and  Howell  and  such  others  as  we  have 
before  indicated,  and  unless  they  disperse  immediately, 
we  will  fire  upon  them." 

Hawkins  galloped  across  the  field.  The  Regulators, 
advancing,  met  him  near  the  middle  of  the  field.  The 
derisive  shouts  which  greeted  the  governor's  message 
were  plainly  heard  by  the  knot  of  officers  surrounding 
Tryon.  In  a  few  moments  Hawkins,  with  red  face  and 
firm-set  lips,  returned. 

"Their  answer?"  asked  Tryon,  with  some  eagerness. 

Hawkins  pulled  at  his  mustache.  Something  like  a 
smile  came  to  his  eyes.  "  'Fire,  and  be  damned !'  "  he 
replied. 

The  governor's  jaws  shut  closely  together.  Then 
he  gave  a  short  laugh.  "H'm!  Polite  enough,  I 
should  say." 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  the  peacemaker 
Thompson  endeavored  to  recross  to  the  line  of  the 
Regulators. 

"Stop  that  man!"  called  Tryon,  angrily. 

Thompson  halted  voluntarily  and  raised  his  honest 
face  to  the  governor's  frowning  visage.  "If  your 
Excellency  insists,"  he  said,  respectfully,  "I  must  stay ; 
but  I  came  peaceably  into  your  ranks,  and  I  think  I  can. 
justly  claim  the  right  to  make  a  peaceable  return."  He 
moved  again  toward  the  ranks  of  the  patriots. 

With  a  savage  oath  Tryon,  bending  over  his  saddle 
bow,  tore  a  musket  from  the  hands  of  one  of  his  men. 
"By  God !  you  won't  go !"  he  cried,  hotly.  And  he 
fired  point-blank  into  the  fearless,  upturned  face. 
Thompson  threw  up  his  hands,  staggered  backward 

237 


Wallannah 

and  sank  to  the  ground.  A  great  shout  of  rage  came 
from  the  Regulators.  Tryon,  paHng  at  the  reaUzation 
of  his  own  murderous  act,  reined  in  his  rearing  horse 
"Send  out  a  truce!"  he  cried,  hoarsely. 

A  white  flag  fluttered  in  the  breeze.  A  chorus 
of  scornful  yells  floated  across  the  field.  Then, 
hesitatingly  at  first,  but  with  final  decisiveness,  the 
patriots  levelled  their  rifles.  The  flag  was  dropped  to 
the  ground. 

Tryon,  spurring  his  horse,  dashed  down  the  front 
of  his  army.  "Fire!"  he  commanded.  "In  the  king's 
name,  fire  upon  those  rebels !"  The  soldiers  looked  at 
each  other  with  an  uncertainty  that  for  the  moment 
brought  dismay  to  Tryon's  heart.  The  governor  rose 
in  his  stirrups  and  waved  his  sword  with  furious 
energy.  "Fire !"  he  yelled,  his  face  purple  with  rage. 
"Fire  on  them  or  fire  on  me !" 

Then,  with  a  few  scattering  shots,  the  volley 
began.  In  a  moment,  with  a  crashing  crescendo, 
the  army  poured  its  lead  into  the  ranks  of  the 
Regulators. 

The  answer  came  back  with  the  echo.  The  smoke 
from  the  two  sides  rolled  out  and  swept  toward  the 
centre  of  the  field.  For  a  few  moments  the  governor's 
regulars  kept  to  their  volleys.  The  royal  militia  and 
the  Regulators,  firing  at  will,  kept  up  a  fitful  popping. 
Then,  with  a  crashing  roar,  a  double  flash  of  red 
gleamed  through  the  sulphurous  clouds,  the  white 
smoke  opened  in  two  narrow  lanes,  then  sucked  in 
behind  the  iron  messengers  that  swept  across  the  field. 
The  six-pounders  had  begun  their  work.  After  them 
came  the  crack !  crack !  rip !  rip !  of  the  tiny  swivels,  and 

238 


The  Battle  of  the  Alamance 

through  and  above  them  all  sounded  the  rising  and 
falling  of  the  angry  growl  of  musketry. 

Within  ten  minutes  neither  side  could  see  the  other, 
and  their  only  guides  were  the  lurid  flashes  that  broke 
through  the  billowy  clouds  of  smoke.  Once  a  gust  of 
wind  swept  across  the  field  and  drove  the  smoke 
scurrying  over  the  grass.  Then  it  was  that  Tryon  saw 
that  his  foes  were  drawing  nearer. 

The  governor,  smarting  with  the  fear  of  defeat, 
commanded,  "Cease  firing!"  and  sent  out  another 
white  flag.  Its  effect  upon  the  Regulators  was  barely 
noticeable.  Again  the  racking  chorus  of  cannon  and 
swivel  shook  the  air,  and  the  musketry  resumed  its 
deafening  roll. 

Tryon,  riding  up  and  down  before  his  lines,  saw 
that  the  enemy's  riflemen  were  playing  havoc  with  the 
artillery.  He  turned  to  Motier.  "Tell  Moore  to 
dislodge  those  fellows  from  that  ledge  of  rocks,"  he 
called. 

Du  Val  galloped  down  the  line  to  its  centre.  Dead 
and  wounded  men  lay  about  the  cannon  in  little 
blood-streaked  piles.  Grimy  men  with  bare  arms 
blackened  and  faces  gleaming  with  a  hellish  fury, 
sponged  and  loaded  and  primed  the  guns.  Captain 
Moore,  his  uniform  torn  to  shreds,  looked  up. 

"Dislodge  the  men  behind  the  ledge,"  called  Motier. 

"Dislodge  the  devil!"  came  the  answer.  "They'll 
clean  us  out  first."  But  the  quick  smile  that  followed 
his  words  softened  their  disrespect. 

The  guns  were  swung  about  and  sighted  on  the 
rocks,  and  a  roaring  field-piece  crouched  deep  into  the 
earth  with  the  drive  of  its  recoil.    The  smoke  cleared 

239 


Wallannah 

away.  The  rifleman  Pugh,  undismayed,  was  firing 
with  cool  and  careful  aim  while  the  three  men  about 
him  loaded  his  rifles.  Motier  turned  away.  As  he 
started  back  a  bullet  ripped  oft  one  of  his  epaulettes 
and  sent  the  glittering  bauble  hurtling  through  the  air. 
The  Frenchman  smiled,  and  a  cheer  came  from  the 
men  behind  him. 

The  fight  grew  hotter.  Bullets  shrieked  and 
whistled  about  them,  little  puffs  of  dust  sprang  up  from 
the  ground  in  a  thousand  unexpected  places,  and  now 
and  then  a  shout  or  a  groan  would  turn  IMotier's  eyes 
toward  some  staggering  man  with  a  bloody  face 
mashed  and  torn  beyond  all  human  semblance,  or  with 
a  hand  pressed  over  a  spot  on  his  uniform  and  a  little 
dark  stream  oozing  between  his  fingers.  And  with 
each  of  these  sights  of  blood  Du  Val  muttered  under 
his  breath,  "Score  one  more  for  Tryon's  vainglory." 

Slowly  the  royal  troops  fell  back  —  ten  —  twenty 
— fifty — a  hundred  yards.  Tryon  raged  in  ungoverned 
fury.  Motier  and  his  brother-aides  dashed  hither  and 
yonder  with  orders  that  sounded  bold  and  brave,  but 
meant  nothing  at  all. 

"Tell  Moore  to  train  his  artillery  on  their  right 
wing,"  shouted  Tryon. 

Motier  and  Malcolm  rushed  down  the  line  and 
reached  the  centre  in  bare  time  to  meet  the  gunners  in 
retreat,  with  a  howling  swarm  of  Regulators  possessing 
the  cannon.  Motier  escaped  his  foemen's  rush  by  a 
quick  turn  and  a  hasty  bit  of  sword-play.  Malcolm 
fell  from  his  horse  and  ran  for  his  life,  leaving  half  his 
clothing  in  the  hands  of  Witten,  the  hunter. 

The  Regulators  kept  the  cannon  as  long  as  they 

240 


The  Battle  of  the  Alamance 

held  the  field.  Having  no  ammunition  to  fit  them,  and 
knowing  nothing  of  the  beautiful  theory  of  spiking 
guns,  their  only  safety  was  in  keeping  the  pieces  out 
of  Tryon's  hands.  This  they  did,  and  the  governor's 
men  were  glad  of  it.  Pugh,  from  his  rocky  fortress, 
had  killed  and  wounded  sixteen  of  the  royal 
artillerymen;  and  the  few  who  remained  had  no 
stomach  for  the  sort  of  fate  that  had  come  to  their; 
companions.  Tryon  and  his  staff  knew  that  those 
sixteen  men  had  been  uselessly  sacrificed ;  for  the 
enemy  had  taken  to  fighting  from  the  woods,  and  the 
heavy  shot  did  little  but  sink  into  tree  trunks  and 
break  the  branches  and  limbs  into  firewood. 

At  last,  when  the  governor  almost  despaired  of 
victory,  and  his  troops  were  fighting  like  men  in  their 
last  hour,  the  fire  of  the  Regulators  began  to  lessen  in 
intensity.  A  puff  of  wind  crossed  the  field  and  sent 
the  smoke  bellying  toward  the  woods.  The  enemy's 
forces  were  half  gone,  and  scores  of  black  figures 
darted  in  and  out  among  the  trees  in  hasty  retreat. 
Their  ammunition  had  failed  when  victory  was  within 
their  grasp. 

Tryon  pressed  his  men  forward.  A  few  hundred 
Regulators  still  kept  up  a  desultory  fire,  and  every 
puff  of  smoke  meant  a  hole  in  a  red  jacket  or  a  rip  in 
a  horse's  hide.  The  royal  troops  advanced,  and  Tryon, 
his  eyes  sparkling  and  his  hands  nervously  fingering 
his  sword-hilt,  took  the  lead.  "A  glorious  victory,"  he 
said,  as  Motier  and  Hawkins  swung  in  beside  him. 
"We'll  capture  them  all." 

But  his  Excellency  was  disappointed ;  for,  at  their 
enemy's   approach,   the   Regulators  broke   ranks   and 

241 


Wallannah 

scattered  into  the  woods.  Tryon's  victorious  charge 
for  a  mile  through  the  forest  yielded  but  fifteen 
prisoners,  a  few  badly  foundered  horses,  and  a  small 
quantity  of  abandoned  stores.  Thus  after  two  hours 
of  fighting  did  the  king's  provincial  troops  win  the 
battle  of  the  Alamance. 

What  Tryon  thought  of  his  achievement  can  best  be 
judged  by  the  opening  words  of  his  official  dispatch 
to  the  home  government.  'T  have  the  happiness  to 
inform  your  Lordship,"  it  read,  "that  it  has  pleased 
God  to  bless  his  Majesty's  arms  in  this  province  with 
signal  victory  over  the  Regulators." 

But  many  in  the  camp  that  night  berated  Tryon  for 
a  tyrant  and  a  murderer;  for  the  battle  might  well 
have  been  avoided ;  and,  even  casting  that  aside,  the 
death  of  Robert  Thompson  had  left  a  stain  on  Tryon 
that  the  waters  of  a  thousand  rivers  could  never  wash 
away. 


242 


Several  Mysteries  Spring  Up 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Several  Mysteries  Spring  Up 

AD  some  well-directed  ounce  of  lead  found 
lodgment,  before  the  Alamance,  within  the 
body  of  William  Tryon,  he  might  have  been 

the  better  for  it.    He  would  still  have  been 

regarded  as  a  despot  of  most  despicable  stamp,  and 
posterity  would  still  have  termed  him  an  unqualified 
ass  ;  yet,  withal,  he  would  have  escaped  the  well-earned 
title  of  murderer.  But  bullets  seldom  go  aright,  and 
Tryon  came  from  the  field  with  skin  unbroken. 

Then  it  was  that  the  situation  ran  away  with  the 
man.  He  had  won  the  fight,  it  is  true;  but  not  until 
he  had  lost  it.  A  keg  of  powder  added  to  the  enemy's 
store  would  have  turned  the  Alamance  against  the 
king's  forces ;  and  no  man,  however  wise,  can  say  what 
would  have  happened  after  that.  With  Tryon  routed, 
his  army  in  retreat,  his  stores  and  ammunition  captured, 
the  Regulators  might  have  swept  British  rule  from  the 
Carolinas  then  and  forever.  And  Victory,  riding 
onward,  would  have  sounded  the  bell  of  liberty  a  full 
five  years  before  the  day  on  which  it  rang.  But  the 
lack  of  a  little  keg  of  powder  turned  the  tide  the  other 
way. 

It  was  after  this  that  Tryon  took  to  hanging  his 
prisoners.     Now,  hanging  is  a  thing  that  few  people 

243 


Wallannah 

like  —  patriots  the  least  of  all ;  and  when  the  governor 
(who  should  have  been  kneeling  in  his  tent  giving 
thanks  to  God  that  the  enemy's  powder  had  run  short) 
began  stringing  up  his  foemen,  he  spoiled  forever  what 
little  remained  of  the  good  name  which  every  man  may 
have  if  he  keeps  quiet  and  gives  his  enemies  time  to 
cool  down. 

Among  the  Regulators  who  fell  into  Tryon's  hands 
was  one  James  Few,  a  harmless,  demented  youth  who 
smiled  at  everything  and  thought  that  the  whole  world 
smiled  with  him.  Du  Val  learned  with  regret  that  this 
man  was  in  Tryon's  grasp,  for  he  knew  that  the 
governor  had  a  letter  which  Few  had  written.  That 
letter,  in  all  its  rambling  length,  had  but  one  coherent 
sentence ;  and  Tryon,  with  unholy  glee  in  his  eyes,  had 
read  that  sentence  thrice  before  he  sent  to  his  baggage 
wagons  for  a  coil  of  hempen  rope.  "I  am  sent  by 
Heaven" — thus  Few  had  written — "to  relieve  the  world 
of  oppression;  and  1  will  begin  in  North  Carolina." 
Now,  Tryon  had  some  notion  that  he  himself  had  been 
sent  by  Heaven  for  a  particular  mission;  and  he 
brooked  no  rival.    Therefore  was  Few  hanged. 

Boggs  and  Motier  were  together  when  the  latter 
learned  that  Few  was  to  receive  some  light  punishment 
for  his  treasonable  proclamation.  Motier  turned  to 
the  doctor.  "Who  is  this  man  Few?"  he  asked,  "and 
what  made  him  crazy?" 

The  doctor  responded  readily.    "Few  is  a  harmless 

fellow,"  he  said,  as  they  walked  back  to  the  camp. 

"When  I  first  knew  him  he  was  a  bright  sort  of  boy, 

betrothed  to  a  very  pretty  girl.     They  were  to  be 

[married  in  a  short  time;    and   Few  was  about  the 


Several  Mysteries  Spring  Up 

happiest  man  I  had  ever  seen.  But  the  governor's  dear 
friend  Colonel  Fanning-,  who  heads  that  crowd  of 
Hillsborough  politicians,  took  a  fancy  to  Few's  fiancee, 
and  proceeded  —  in  a  nice,  kind,  gentlemanlike  way,  of 
course  —  to  accomplish  the  ruin  of  the  girl.  Few 
discovered  the  state  of  affairs  shortly  before  the  day  set 
for  the  wedding.  His  present  condition  is  the  result." 
"Too  bad  that  he  couldn't  have  kept  his  wits  long 
enough  to  shoot  Fanning,"  mused  Motier.  with  a 
wrathful  gleam  in  his  eyes, 

"That's    why    Fanning    gloats    over    the    fellow's 
capture,"  responded  Boggs.     "He's  afraid  Few  may 
still  have  enough  brains  to  do  it." 
"I  hope  that  he  has." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "No  chance,"  he  said. 
"The  man  can  never  regain  his  mind." 

Boggs  prophesied  better  than  he  knew,  for  Few 
never  had  a  chance  to  recover  his  reason.  Tryon,  with 
the  smirking,  dark-faced  Fanning  at  his  elbow,  had  the 
gibbering  maniac  hanged  before  the  sun  had  set.  The 
poor  fellow  laughed  as  they  put  the  noose  about  his 
neck;  for  he  had  no  understanding  of  what  it  all 
meant. 

As  Tryon,  with  a  grim  satisfaction  in  his  eyes, 
looked  up  toward  the  gaunt  figure  that  swayed 
backward  and  forward  against  the  blood-red  western 
sky,  one  of  the  militiamen  nudged  a  companion  in  the 
side,  "That  'ere  corpse  swings  atween  Tryon  and 
heaven,  in  jest  about  two  different  ways,"  he  said. 
And  the  chances  are  that  the  man  was  right. 

On  the  day  after  the  fight  Boggs  was  the  busiest 
man  in  camp,  for  the  wounded  numbered  over  three 

245 


Wallannah 

score,  and  cried  for  his  attention.  The  dead  were 
buried  with  fitting  honors,  and  the  various  departments 
of  the  Httle  army  busied  themselves  in  making  ready 
for  the  march  to  SaUsbury. 

At  sunrise  Motier  began  reading  the  six  or  eight 
letters  which  had  been  brought  to  his  tent  on  the  day 
before.  One  of  these  was  from  his  father,  who  had 
written  with  the  intention  of  having  his  message  come 
to  Motier  before  the  fight. 

"I  had  determined,"  wrote  M.  Du  Val.  "for  reasons 
which  I  will  explain  in  proper  time,  to  remove  you  from 
the  army  upon  your  arrival  at  Hillsborough.  I  wished 
to  do  this  in  order  that  you  might  accompany  me 
further  up  the  country,  whither  I  am  called  by  a  sacred 
duty.  But  General  Waddell,  with  whom  I  am  now, 
being  unable  by  force  of  circumstances  to  move 
forward,  I  think  it  better  to  remain  with  him  until  such 
time  as  he  can  effect  a  junction  with  the  main  array. 
Continue,  therefore,  with  the  governor  until  we  meet. 
Should  you  in  the  meanwhile  get  into  battle,  you  will 
necessarily  be  exposed  to  your  full  share  of  danger.  In 
communicating  the  governor's  orders  you  will  have  to 
be  where  the  fight  is  thickest.  I  know  you  will 
discharge  such  duties  faithfully,  but  do  not  volunteer 
a  single  blow.  Do  your  duty,  but  do  not  be  led  into 
anything  aggressive.  You  may  think  this  strange 
advice,  but  it  will  be  explained  to  you  in  due  season." 

Motier  gave  a  little  laugh  as  he  slipped  the  letter 
into  his  pocket.  "That  shows  several  things,"  he 
reflected,  as  he  sat  on  his  camp-stool  and  lit  his  pipe. 
"That  proves  that  Sequa  knew  some  time  before  I  did 
that  I  was  going  to  the  mountains:    that  is  mystery 

246 


Several  Mysteries  Spring  Up 

number  one.  It  indicates,  also,  that  father  nas  some 
mission  up  the  country:  that  is  mystery  number  two. 
The  next  thing  is  his  request  for  me  to  be  passive  in 
the  battle.  Well,  when  I  recall  the  squabble,  I  can't 
remember  that  I  struck  a  blow  that  did  more  than 
break  the  skin:  but  anyway,  that  makes  mystery 
number  three.  Then,  too,  he  says  that  Waddell  is  tied 
up  by  force  of  circumstances :  that  is  the  fourth 
mystery ;  but  I'll  wager  that  the  Regulators  have  made 
him  retreat.  I  could  have  told  Tryon  a  week  ago  that 
to  send  two  hundred  and  fifty  men  through  this  country 
in  the  face  of  that  crowd  of  insurgents  was  the  act  of 
an  imbecile.  But,"  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
opened  another  letter,  "that's  the  governor's  business : 
let  him  figure  it  out  as  best  he  can." 

The  second  letter  was  from  Esther  Wake.  Motier's 
pipe  went  out  several  times  as  he  read  the  scented 
missive,  and  his  flint  and  steel  kept  up  a  merry  crackle 
through  it  all.  After  the  first  reading  Motier  smiled. 
"Parblieu,"  he  said,  brushing  Boggs'  kitten  from  his 
shoulder,  "here  is  mystery  number  five." 

Here  is  what  the  letter  said : 

"Dear  Motier:  We  are  all  overwhelmed  with  anxiety  at 
the  result  of  the  governor's  expedition,  and  eagerly  await  news 
from  the  front.  Do  be  careful,  and  don't  expose  yourself  to 
needless  danger. 

"I  spent  yesterday  at  the  De  Vere's  and  had  some  talk  with 
your  golden-haired  friend.  I  am  afraid,  dear  boy,  that  you 
parted  too  hastily  from  this  little  woman.  I  haven't  heard  the 
whole  story,  but  I  think  that  when  you  return  you  should  drop 
in  at  Beechwood  and  see  how  the  matter  stands.  I  fear  that 
you  have  a  rival ;  for  while  waiting  for  Alice  I  chanced  to 
open  her  autograph  album  and  found  a  page  perfectly  bare  of 

247 


Wallannah 

writing  but  having  a  badly  crushed  white  rose  fastened  to  it. 
If  you  can  tell  who  sent  her  the  rose  you  will  also  know  where 
her  heart  lies,  for  she  blushed  very  brightly  when  I  spoke  of 
it,  and  refused  to  tell  me  the  name  of  the  donor. 

"We  have,  of  course,  heard  nothing  from  dear  Lucille 
since  she  left.  I  hope  that  she  has  not  run  into  the  severe 
storms  which  have  been  raging  along  the  coast  of  Virginia. 
I  think  that  Lucille  was  very  fond  of  you;  and  we  are  all 
surprised  that  you  never  found  it  out.  She  seemed  heart-broken 
because  you  did  not  come  to  the  wharf  to  bid  her  good-bye. 
I  might  have  told  you  this  before  you  left,  but  you  and  brother 
William  were  so  closely  closeted  that  I  had  no  opportunity  to 
talk  with  you. 

"Now,  my  dear  Motier,  remember  you  must  not  walk  into 
the  cannon's  mouth,  nor  run  your  horse  under  low-limbed 
trees ;   for  we  want  you  back  here  again. 

"With  sincere  regard,  Esther. 

"Very  sweet,"  laughed  Motier,  after  the  second 
reading.  "But  mystery  number  five  is :  'Why  is  Alice 
De  Vere  keeping  that  rose  ?'  "  He  folded  the  letter. 
"Esther"  —  he  started.  Then  he  looked  down.  "But 
here  is  the  inevitable  woman's  postscript."  "By  the 
way,"  it  read,  "you  will  find  in  your  uniform-coat 
pocket  a  little  bow  of  blue  and  white  ribbon  which  I 
had  Tonta  slip  in  there.  I  want  you  to  wear  this  as  a 
token  of  peace.  It  is  a  queer  little  notion  of  mine ;  but 
if  you  will  wear  my  colors,  and  be  my  —  "  Motier 
raised  his  eyes  and  swore  at  the  tent-top.  "Great 
Caesar!"  he  growled,  "another  commission!"  He  went 
back  to  the  blurred  comma:  "and  be  my  knight,  I 
will  feel  as  though  some  bond  linked  together  our 
friendship.  I  am  not  in  sympathy  with  this  war ;  and 
if  you  agree  with  me,  as  a  matter  between  us  two  wear 
my  ribbons." 

248 


Several  Mysteries  Spring  Up 

Motier  stuffed  the  note  into  his  pocket  and  drew  out 
a  rumpled  bunch  of  ribbon.  "I'll  have  to  put  a  stop  to 
this  knight  business,"  he  said,  trying  to  smooth  out  the 
ribbons  on  his  knee.  "There's  no  chance  of  winning  a 
Holy  Grail  or  anything  else  but  grey  hairs  and  bad 
opinions.  Well,  I'll  wear  the  thing,  anyhow;  though 
it  isn't  exactly  a  martial  decoration.  Oho !"  And  he 
yawned  sleepily.  "Esther  means  well,  but  if  she'd 
written  much  more  about  those  two  girls  —  " 

He  lit  his  pipe  again  and  began  staring  at  the 
romping  kitten  on  the  floor. 

It  was  clear  in  Motier's  mind  that  Lucille  had  not 
told  the  members  of  the  governor's  household  of  her 
parting  with  him;  nor  had  he  spoken  of  his  own  )art 
in  the  matter.  As  far  as  he  could  tell,  Lucille  was  out 
of  his  life  forever.  The  thought  of  her  future  was  not 
a  pleasant  one  to  him;  but  he  persuaded  himstlf  that 
had  he  devoted  his  whole  life  to  her,  she  would  have 
been  none  the  better  for  it.  He  was  sure  that  he  would 
have  been  much  the  worse. 

Then  his  mind  turned  to  Alice,  and  he  smiled  as 
he  thought  of  the  white  rose.  He  still  felt  that  strange 
dislike  of  placing  her,  in  his  own  regard,  on  a  level  with 
the  other  women  whom  he  had  known.  There  was 
something  about  her  which  made  him  place  her  with 
the  higher  things  of  life;  but  what  that  something 
was  he  did  not  know. 

From  Alice  his  mind  turned  to  Maynard.  He  had 
not  met  the  man  since  the  day  that  Esther  Wake  had 
seen  them  in  the  garden  at  Beechwood;  but  he  had 
thought  of  him  with  a  strange  frequency.  As  neither 
had  killed  the  other  in  battle,  the  affair  with  Cantwell 

249 


Wallannah 

lay  somewhere  ahead  of  them  both ;  and  Motier  longed 
for  the  day.  Excepting  one  (he  who  had  been  with 
him  through  those  swift-going  months  in  England) 
Maynard  was  the  most  congenial  man-at-arms  he  had 
ever  known.  He  felt  that  to  fight  a  good  fight  under 
the  eyes  of  this  cool-headed,  fearless  man  would  be  a 
distinction  well  worth  the  risk.  There  was  still  enou^'h 
of  the  boy  in  Motier  to  make  him  love  a  display  of  his 
prowess. 

His  revery  ended,  Du  Val  reached  out  for  another 
letter.  The  superscription  of  this  one  was  in  an 
unknown  hand ;  but,  as  he  read' the  message  within,  he 
remembered  when  and  how  he  had  seen  this  rude 
penmanship  before. 

"Munseer,"  it  ran,  "for  gods  saik  look  owt  fer  jake 
Cantwell.  hes  praktisin  evvry  day  with  his  sord  and 
he  sez  hes  goin  upp  to  the  mowntins  to  ketch  you. 
they  sez  yer  a  frencher  but  i  bett  yer  carlina  enuf  to 
skin  that  air  pollywog  allive.    yer  f rend,  A  Frend." 

"  'Your  friend,  A  Friend,'  "  repeated  Motier,  with  a 
laugh.  "I'd  give  half  a  crown  to  know  who  he  is.  He 
seems  to  fear  Cantwell  more  than  I  do.  Vive  1'  ami !  I 
hope  to  meet  him  some  day." 

A  shadow  crossed  the  tent  floor.  Motier  looked  up. 
Malcolm,  the  senior  aide,  stood  in  the  doorway.  "His 
Excellency  wishes  you,"  he  said,  with  a  mock  salute. 

"He  can  have  me,"  responded  Du  Val,  throwing 
down  his  pipe  and  stuffing  the  letters  into  his  pocket. 
"What's  in  the  wind  now?" 

"Another  hanging-bee,"  was  the  answer.  "A 
devilish  unpleasant  one,  too." 

"How?     Any  special  features?" 

250 


Several  Mysteries  Spring  Up 

"Yes ;   a  woman  in  the  case.' 

"H'm !    There  frequently  is  when  a  man  hangs." 

The  army  stood  at  rest  beneath  the  trees.  Huddled 
together,  with  a  guard  about  them,  were  the  prisoners 
of  yesterday's  conflict.  The  governor  and  some  of  his 
officers  stood  together  by  the  rude  gallows  from  which 
the  demented  Few  had  gone  to  eternity.  Beside  the 
dangling  noose  stood  Messer,  one  of  the  captured 
Regulators,  bound  hand  and  foot,  but  calm  and  fearless. 
At  Tryon's  feet  knelt  a  slight,  thin-featured  woman, 
apparently  of  the  poorer  class.  She  was  weeping 
piteously,  and  a  ten-year-old  boy  who  stood  near  by 
was  crying  as  though  his  heart  would  break. 

Doctor  Boggs  took  Motier's  arm  as  the  Frenchman, 
parting  from  Malcolm,  went  toward  the  governor. 
"Yesterday  was  bad  enough,"  he  said,  fiercely,  "but 
this  is  worse.  Fd  like  to  curse  his  Excellency  until  my 
face  turned  blue." 

"Sedition,  rank  sedition,"  responded  Motier,  "but  I 
swear  I  agree  with  you." 

Motier  took  his  place  by  the  governor.  Tryon 
looked  down  at  the  woman  with  a  sneer  on  his  lips. 
"Well,"  he  asked,  petulantly,  "why  don't  you  go?  You 
have  my  answer." 

The  woman  sobbed  aloud.  "But  spare  his  life,  your 
Excellency,"  she  cried,  "don't  kill  my  husband.  He's 
all  we've  got  in  the  world:   don't  kill  him!" 

Tryon's  face  gave  no  sign  of  feeling.  "You  are 
wasting  breath,"  he  said,  harshly.  "Fve  told  you  that 
he  must  hang.  He  has  five  minutes  more :  talk  to  him, 
not  to  me."  And  he  turned  away  and  walked  toward 
the  camp. 

251 


Wallannah 

The  woman  arose  and  followed  him.  "Your 
Excellency,"  she  sobbed,  "if  you  have  any  feeling, 
listen  —  " 

"You  have  my  answer,"  he  replied,  shortly.  "Do 
not  speak  to  me  again."  He  made  another  move 
toward  his  tent. 

The  young  boy  ran  to  his  side.  "If  your  Excellency 
please,"  he  said,  lifting  his  big  blue  eyes  to  Tryon's 
face,  while  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  "don't  hurt 
papa." 

Tryon's  face  was  unmoved.  "Your  mother  has  my 
answer,"  he  said,  coldly.    "Go  to  her." 

But  the  boy  did  not  go.  "Please,  your  Excellency," 
he  entreated,  his  lips  quivering  and  his  little  hands 
clasped  together,  "if  you've  got  to  hang  some  one,  hang 
me  and  let  papa  go." 

A  slight  smile  crossed  Tryon's  face.  "Who  told 
you  to  ask  that?"  he  questioned. 

"Nobody,  your  Excellency:  I  just  ask  it  myself." 
The  boy's  face  was  white  and  he  trembled  from  head 
to  foot. 

The  governor  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  softened 
for  one  brief  moment.  "What  is  your  reason  for 
making  this  request?"  he  asked. 

"Because,"  the  boy  answered,  "if  you  hang  me  it 
won't  make  no  diff'rence;  but  if  you  hang  papa, 
mamma  will  die  too,  and  so  will  little  brother  and 
sister."  The  boy  still  kept  his  great  eyes  fixed  on  the 
governor's  face. 

Tryon  cleared  his  throat.  "Well,"  he  said,  with 
some  gentleness.  "I  will  change  my  plan,  and  will  not 
hang  your  father  to-day."    He  turned  and  left  the  field. 

•   252 


Several  Mysteries  Spring  Up 

But  he  had  not  said  that  he  would  not  hang  the  man  a 
week  from  that  day. 

A  few  days  later  the  army  started  upon  its  march 
from  the  Alamance  to  make  a  junction  with  the  force 
of  General  Waddell,  which  the  Regulators  had  driven 
back  to  Salisbury.  Motier  was  sitting  on  his  horse, 
reining  him  in  tightly  as  the  drum  corps  thundered  by. 

Doctor  Boggs  approached  him.  "We  part  here," 
he  said,  "I  am  ordered  back  with  the  wounded  to 
Hillsborough.  I  hope  when  you  reach  your  father  he 
will  find  something  better  for  you  than  gracing  Tryon's 
triumphal  march.  I  trust  you  will  never  get  into 
another  such  scrape.  Really,  Du  Val,  I  am  sorry  to 
leave  you.  We  have  had  pleasant  communing  together ; 
but  we  shall  meet  again  before  long.  I  expect  to  give 
a  good  report  of  you  to  the  girl  at  Beechwood  —  There, 
no  back  talk !  Good-bye,  my  boy,  and  God  bless  you  !" 
And  the  grip  of  the  doctor's  hand  was  that  of  a  man 
who  means  all  that  he  says. 

At  Salisbury  Motier  met  his  father, and  was  relieved 
from  further  service  in  the  army.  Governor  Tryon 
complimented  him  upon  the  faithful  performance  of 
his  duties,  and  laid  great  stress  upon  the  young  man's 
coolness  during  the  battle,  which  Tryon  seemed  to 
rank  with  the  greatest  conflicts  of  history. 

Tryon,  after  a  march  of  triumph  through  the  upper 
towns  of  the  province,  released  several  of  his  prisoners, 
held  a  few  more  for  the  orders  of  the  king,  and 
proceeded,  with  all  due  delicacy,  to  hang  the  rest. 
Among  these  last  was  John  Pugh,  the  rifleman,  who 
met  death  without  a  sign  of  fear,  after  having 
denounced    Tryon   in    a    speech    which    that    worthy 

253 


Wallannah 

gentleman  cut  short  in  the  middle  by  swinging  the 
speaker  into  eternity  quite  a  half-hour  before  the 
appointed  time. 

Messer,  whose  son  had  interceded  for  him  at  the 
Alamance,  was  hung  on  the  same  day.  The  wife  and 
the  little  son  made  no  plea  this  time,  for  they  thought 
the  man  safe.  Messer  himself,  having  no  nonsense  in 
his  composition,  knew  from  the  first  that  Tryon  would 
strangle  him  at  the  earliest  opportunity. 

Du  Val,  much  to  his  gratification,  missed  this  latest 
demonstration  of  Tryon's  official  courtesy,  and 
having  joined  his  father,  made  plans  for  a  future  of 
bewildering  uncertainties. 

The  elder  Du  Val  seemed  badly  run  down  in  health, 
and  had  abandoned  his  trip  to  the  mountains.  After  a 
long  conference  in  which  Motier  found  much  that 
seemed  mysterious,  his  father  gave  him  a  letter  for 
Captain  Maynard  with  instructions  to  ride  up  the 
mountain  road  until  the  captain  met  him.  This 
command  seemed  so  remarkable  that  Motier  could 
hardly  believe  it  to  be  uttered  in  earnest ;  but  his  father 
insisted,  and  with  no  further  light  on  the  matter,  Motier 
prepared  for  the  trip. 

He  puzzled  his  brain  for  several  days,  but  could 
find  no  reason  why  his  father  should  send  a 
communication  to  Maynard  in  such  a  manner  and  at 
such  a  time;  but  he  was  not  sorry,  for  he  wanted  to 
talk  with  the  captain  upon  the  matter  of  one  Jacob 
Cantwell,  who  was  coming  into  the  mountains  to 
"ketch"  him.  And  that  thought  gave  birth  to  another : 
how  did  young  Cantwell  know  that  Motier  was  going 
to  the  up-country? 

254 


An  Awkward  Surprise 


CHAPTER  XXII 

1A.N  Awkward  Surprise 

WEEK  after  Motier  Du  Val  and  his  father 
parted  at  SaHsbury,  a  party  of  a  dozen 
horsemen  were  riding  slowly  over  a  ridge 
road  that  wound  its  way  along  the  crest  of 
a  mountain  range  in  western  Carolina.  All  save  the 
two  in  the  lead  rode  with  the  lounging  ease  of  veteran 
troopers,  their  accoutrements  rattling  merrily,  their 
sword-hilts  close  at  their  hands  and  their  carbines 
gleaming  brightly  in  the  afternoon  sun. 

The  two  who  rode  ahead  were  Captain  Neale,  of  the 
Rangers,  mounted  on  a  great  bay  charger,  and  Motier 
Du  Val,  astride  his  own  horse  Fleetfoot.  The  officer, 
attired  in  the  fatigue  uniform  of  the  the  provincial 
army,  carried  sword  and  pistols.  Duval  wore  a 
civilian's  garb,  and  his  weapons,  if  any  he  had,  were 
concealed  beneath  his  coat. 

The  down-going  sun  was  close  to  the  top  of  the 
range,  and  the  trees  that  lined  the  rocky  road  were 
casting  long  shadows  across  the  highway. 

"By  St.  George!"  ejaculated  the  officer,  checking 
his  horse  a  little,  "the  road  gets  rockier  with  every  rod. 
Our  prospect  for  a  night  under  cover  seems  none  of 
the  best.  What  say  you,  Du  Val?  down  there  in  the 
valley  we  might  find  water  and  a  smooth  spot  for  a 

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Wallannab 

camp;  but  I  doubt  our  reaching  it  in  time.  I  caught 
the  sparkle  of  a  streanl  down  there  but  a  moment  ago. 
We  may  be  able  to  make  it  if  we  do  not  waste  our 
daylight.     Shall  we  try?" 

Motier  steered  his  horse  around  a  giant  boulder. 
"As  you  will,  Captain,"  he  answered,  settling  back 
again  into  his  saddle.  "Remember  that  I  make  no 
claim  to  woodcraft.  I  see  no  path  leading  toward  the 
valley ;  but  if  you  say  go,  I'll  follow." 

"I  hate  to  risk  it  so  late  in  the  day,"  said  Neale, 
with  an  anxious  glance  toward  the  sun.  "Should 
darkness  catch  us  in  that  chasm  we'd  never  find  the 
road  again.  I  wish  to  heaven  we'd  brought  a  guide 
with  us." 

Neale  turned  his  horse  and  faced  his  little  party. 
"Do  any  of  you  know  this  country?" 

The  soldie'rs  looked  at  one  another  and  smiled. 
Every  head  shook  its  negative  response. 

"Well,"  said  Neale,  with  the  calm  of  one  whose 
habit  is  to  take  things  as  they  come,  "we'll  keep  ahead 
until  we  find  some  trace  of  human  life."  He  turned 
his  horse's  head  again  to  the  west,  and  spoke  to  DuVal. 
"We're  outside  the  civilized  world,  I  guess,"  he  said, 
with  a  little  laugh,  "we've  been  traveling  for  three  days 
over  the  worst  road  in  Christendom  —  or  heathendom, 
whichever  it  is  —  and  have  yet  to  see  the  first 
decent-looking  house.  Let  your  mind  drop  back  to  the 
pictures  of  domestic  bliss  as  we've  seen  it  in  the  huts 
along  the  way:  women,  women,  children,  children. 
Have  they  no  husbands  or  fathers,  do  you  think  ?" 

"The  men  were  hunting,  so  their  wives  said." 

"Yes ;  all  hunting ;  but  hunting  what  ?    We've  seen 

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An  Awkward  Surprise 

none  of  them.  A  king's  uniform  drives  these  rabbits 
to  their  burrows  quicker  than  aught  else,  except  the 
tax-collector.  How  far  back  would  you  call  the  last 
house  we  passed?" 

"Something  like  ten  miles." 

"So  I  think.  I  fear,  Du  V^al,  we  are  on  a  fool's 
errand.  How  are  we  to  find  our  man  among  all  these 
crags  and  hollows  and  caverns,  and  cracks  like  this 
one?''  He  pointed  to  a  crevice  beside  the  road.  "Ye 
gods !  I  can  smell  hell's  sulphur  coming  up  through 
it  now.  It  passes  my  poor  wits  to  know  how  to  find  the 
fellow.  However,  be  it  one  way  or  the  other,  orders  are 
orders ;  and,  if  our  information  amounts  to  anything, 
we  are  still  upon  the  trail.  Now  —  but  I  caU  that 
smoke,  don't  you  ?  There  to  the  right,  between  us  and 
that  ragged  peak.    See  it?" 

"Yes.  It's  smoke  all  well  enough ;  perhaps  a 
dwelling;  more  probably  a  hunters'  camp.  Either 
would  suit  us  now,  if  they  feed  us  and  refrain  from 
poisoning  our  soup." 

"Well,  let's  keep  ahead.  This  road  probably  snakes 
around  toward  it  some  way." 

Spurring  up  their  horses  the  party  clattered  on  at  a 
lively  gait.  Dipping  over  the  brow  of  a  little  hill,  they 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  figure  disappearing  into  a 
thicket  by  the  roadside.  Neale  drew  his  pistol.  "Who's 
there?"  he  shouted,  galloping  toward  the  bushes  that 
still  swayed  with  the  passing  of  the  person.  "Come 
out,"  he  yelled,  waving  his  weapon  toward  the  woods, 
"if  you  don't,  I'll  blow  your  brains  out." 

A  woman  came  forth  from  the  thicket  and  entered 
the  road.    The  captain  wheeled  his  horse  and  faced  her. 

257 


Wallannah 

She  was  of  masculine  proportions,  broad  and  brawny, 
and  arrayed  in  a  blue-checked  gown  of  homespun. 
Her  features,  partially  hidden  by  a  great  sunbonnet, 
were  bold  and  prominent,  and  her  keen  gray  eyes 
twinkled  with  expression. 

"I  beg  you  to  excuse  me,  my  good  woman,"  said 
Neale,  returning  his  pistol  to  its  holster  and  touching 
his  hat ;  "had  I  known  you  to  be  one  of  the  gentler  sex, 
I  should  not  have  called  so  roughly.  I  trust  that  I  did 
not  alarm  you.    But  why  did  you  try  to  hide  from  us  ?" 

The  woman  raised  her  head  and  smiled.  "  'It's 
gude  to  dread  the  warst;  the  best  will  be  the 
welcomer,'  "  she  answered,  in  a  sharp  unmusical  voice. 

The  captain  pulled  at  his  mustache.  "Ah !  I  see," 
he  said,  reflectively.  "Scotch,  or  Scotch-Irish.  Yet 
not,  I  hope,  the  less  loyal  to  his  British  Majesty,  King 
George;  nor  the  less  ready  to  help  his  officers  if 
need  be.  But  you  answer  me  in  a  proverb.  Let  me 
suggest  another,  which  I  learned  from  my  good  old 
grandmother :  Til  doers  are  aye  ill  dreaders.'  " 

"  'A  burnt  bairn  dreads  the  fire,'  "  responded  the 
woman,  "I  didna  ken  but  ye  might  be  Regulators. 
Sith  ye  gang  wi'  the  king,  God  bless  him !  I'm  ower 
glad  to  see  ye.  But  it's  nae  wrang  for  a  puir  weak 
woman  to  hide  hersel'  from  stranger  sodgers  wi'  lang 
guns,  when  she  canna  tell  friends  from  foes.  'Mettle's 
nae  gude  for  a  blind  mare.'  " 

"Quite  right,  quite  right,"  responded  the  captain, 
gallantly.  "It  well  befits  your  tender  sex  to  be  timid. 
I  am  glad  to  see  you,  since  you  are  so  good  a  friend  to 
the  king.  We  shall  want  your  aid.  Here,  Du  Val,"  he 
said  to  Motier,  as  he  and  the  soldiers  halted  close  by, 

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An  Awkward  Surprise 

"here  is  the  guide  we've  prayed  for.  This  gooa  woman 
lives  close  by  —  you  said  close  by,  did  you  not?" 

"Nae,  nae ;  I  didna  say.  But  it's  na  sae  mony 
miles  —  beyant  the  crags  there."  And  she  pointed  to 
a  rugged  peak  dimly  looming  through  the  haze  above 
the  foothills. 

The  captain's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  her 
fingers.  "By  Heaven !"  he  said,  with  dismay.  "We 
can  never  get  there!" 

"Hoot  awa,  mon !  Gin  ye  swim  the  loch,  an'  nae  let 
the  grass  grow  under  your  feet,  it  wadna  tak  lang 
i'  the  night." 

"Worse  and  worse!"  cried  Neale,  with  a 
disheartened  shrug.  "We  can't  —  But  how  do  you 
get  home?   you  don't  swim  the  lake?" 

"Nae ;  I  go  a  shorter  path  ;  but  the  beasties  couldna 
keep  their  footin'  in  it." 

"We  must  give  that  up,"  said  the  captain.  "But  is 
there  no  other  place,  somewhere  within  a  reasonable 
distance,  where  we  might  find  shelter,  or  at  least, 
water?    What  makes  that  smoke  ahead  of  us?" 

"It's  an  auld  wife's  lodge;  and  the  string  o'  the 
latch  hangs  outside  the  door." 

"Could  she  give  us  food  and  shelter  and  some 
fodder  for  the  horses?"    . 

"Auld  Locky  hae  muckle  and  to  spare;  and  gin  ye 
hae  siller,  'twill  be  a  hame  o'  your  ain.  'Money  maks  a 
mon  free  ilka  where.'  " 

"Guide  us  to  the  place,  and  we'll  pay  you  well." 

"My  ain  path  gaes  foment.  When  we  come  to  the 
partin'  I'll  show  ye  the  way,  sae  wi'  half  an  e'e  ye  canna 
miss  it." 

259  . 


Wallannah 

"Soho!  my  men!"  called  Neale,  jocularly. 
"Forward  to  the  house  where  the  latch-string  hangs 
outside." 

"Nae,  nae,"  protested  the  woman,  "gie'n  ye  gang 
at  sic  a  gait  I  canna  keep  up.  'Mair  haste  the  waur 
speed,  quoth  the  tailor  to  the  lang  thread.'  " 

"I  beg  pardon,"  lauo-hed  the  captain,  reining  in  his 
horse ;  "I  forgot  that  you  were  walking.  But  it's  late, 
and  time  is  short." 

They  moved  on  for  a  while  in  silence.  The  captain 
looked  carelessly  about  him  as  one  who  seeks  for 
natural  scenes  to  please  the  eye.  Motier,  his  eyelids 
slightly  lowered,  looked  fixedly  at  their  guide. 

The  silence  was  abruptly  broken  by  the  captain. 
"Has  this  place  a  name?"  he  asked  of  the  woman. 

"This  ridge  ye're  ridin'  on?  They  call  it  The  Deil's 
Backbane." 

"Thundering  good  name — judging  by  its  virtues 
as  a  road,"  exclaimed  Neale.  "But  it  has  a  sound  of 
evil  omen.  My  good  mother,"  he  added,  after  a  little 
pause,  "you  seem  to  have  little  love  for  the  Regulators. 
Have  they  ever  troubled  you?" 

"Did  they  na  tak  my  gude  mon  frae  his  bed  sleepin' 
by  my  side,  and  wi'  his  hands  tied  all  helpless,  tak  him 
to  a  tree  before  me  and  the  childer,  and  Way  him  till  the 
brath  was  well-nigh  gane  from  his  puir  body!  Love 
them  !    Aye,  as  the  deil  lo'es  holy  water  \" 

"You  have  good  reasons  then  for  being  a  loyalist. 
Tell  me,  now,  have  you  ever  seen  Herman  Husbands? 
Do  you  know  the  man  ?" 

"Do  I  ken  Herman  Husbands?  Troth  I  ken  him 
vvell  eno' ;  and  it's  na  muckle  gude  I  ken  o'  him.    He 

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An  Awkward  Surprise 

wai5  alang — the  head  o'  a' — the  night  they  got  my  puir 
Dugald.  He  cam  back  t'ither  day,  sair  greeted;  and 
tried  with  his  siller  to  mak  it  a'  up,  and  be  friends 
ag'in.    But  I'm  na  ilka  mon's  dog  that  whistles  on  me." 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"Wad  ye  like  to  see  the  deil's  bairn?" 

"He's  the  man  we  want,  good  woman.  Put  us  in 
the  way  to  find  him,  and  a  good  reward  will  be  yours. ' 

"Wad  ye,  tho'?    How  much  siller?" 

"Well,  say  ten  pounds  sterling;  will  that  do?" 

"Awee?,  aweel !  Ten  pounds  is  muckle  money  to 
gie  a  puir  body  to  do  her  ain  pleasure.  But  the  king's 
rich;  and  't  wad  be  a  bonny  lift  for  a  rainy  day.  I 
canna  say  ye  nae."  Then  resting  her  hand  on  the 
horse's  shoulder,  and  lowering  her  voice  for  Neale's 
ear,  "Gie'n  Herman's  na  at  Tam  Eraun's,  ye  may  find 
him  at  the  auld  wife's  where  ye're  gangin'  for  the 
night.  He  was  there  yestreen ;  and  they  looked  for 
him  to-day.  He  sleeps  i'  the  sma'  house  i'  the  corner 
o'  the  yard.  But  ye  maun  be  cautious,  or  ye'll  fright 
the  bird." 

"But  maybe  the  old  woman  will  be  on  watch?" 

"Maybe!  Maybe's  are  no  aye  honey-bees!  Auld 
dame  Locky  has  nae  mair  lo'  for  him  than  I  hae  mysel'. 
But  here  we  be  at  the  partin'." 

They  had  come  to  a  great  circling  sweep  in  the 
ridge,  where  the  main  road  veered  to  the  right, 
and  a  smaller  path,  descending  into  a  gloomy  hollow, 
continued  straight  to  the  west. 

"I  maun  lea*  ye  here,"  the  woman  said,  halting  by 
the  roadside.  "Your  way  lies  doon  there.  I  canna 
leave  the  Deil's  Backbane  sae  soon." 

261 


Wallannah 

"But,  my  good  woman,  you  were  to  guide  us." 

"  'Tis  a  clear  track  noo.  Bear  to  the  right  at  ilka 
fork.  Ye  see  the  smoke  ag'in'  the  trees.  There's 
nae  branch  or  moor  to  trouble  ye  wi'  the  crassin'.  But 
diniia  hurry :  let  the  sun  gang  to  his  lair,  or  Herman  '11 
get  his  een  upon  ye." 

"Suppose  Husbands  is  not  there.    What  then?" 

"I'll  tak  a  look  at  Tarn  as  I  gae  by.  and  gie  him 
twa  o'  the  pounds  —  tho'  I  canna  spare  sae  muckle  — 
to  tak  Herman  down.    A  smart  carle  is  Tammy." 

VWell,  since  you  must  leave  us,  here  is  your  money, 
good  friend."  And  the  captain  pulled  out  some  coin, 
a  half  crown  and  a  few  pennies.  He  tendered  the 
largest  piece  to  the  woman,  who  took  it  with  an 
av/kward  curtsey,  and  cast  a  wistful  glance  at  the 
pennies. 

"Can  ye  nae  let  the  horns  gang  wi'  the  hide?"  she 
asked. 

Neale  gave  an  amused  laugh.  "Take  them,"  he 
said,  holding  out  his  palm.  "And  now,  good-bye; 
and  thank  you.  Remember  your  ten  pounds  reward 
if  we  find  him." 

"I'll  nae  forget.  And  if  Tammy  canna  bring 
the  mon,  I'll  fetch  him  mysel'."  And  she  turned  up 
the  road. 

As  they  entered  the  path  to  the  hollow,  Motier, 
who  had  been  regarding  the  woman  with  suspicion, 
turned  in  his  saddle  and  glanced  back.  The  woman 
was  watching  them,  and  to  Du  Val's  eyes  she  looked 
six  inches  taller  than  when  she  had  stood  beside  them. 
But  as  he  looked,  she  turned,  and  quickly  passed  from 
view. 

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An  Awkward  Surprise 

Neale  held  back  his  horse.  "She  was  a  godsend 
to  us,  wasn't  she?"  remarked  the  captahi,  as  Du  Val 
came  up  beside  him,    "What  did  you  think  of  her?" 

"She  has  gained  my  deepest  distrust." 

Neale  looked  at  Motier  in  surprise.  "Distrust!" 
he  echoed.  "Why,  the  woman  is  one  of  those  honest 
old  Scotch  people  who  would  die  rather  than  lie.  Why 
do  you  distrust  her?" 

"Why  ?  Because  she  was  playing  a  part.  She's  as 
Scotch  as  I  am :  her  dialect  broke  out  in  little  spots. 
Eight-tenths  of  her  words  were  pure  English.  And 
her  voice !  She  had  six  or  seven  voices.  I  fear 
treachery." 

"Pshaw  !"  laughed  Neale.  "Wait,  my  dear  Du  Val, 
until  you  know  these  mountaineers  as  I  do.  They're 
a  rough  set,  and  they  talk  more  dialects  than  a  sailor's 
parrot ;  but  they're  honest  to  the  core.  This  woman's 
account  tallied  perfectly  with  our  former  information : 
you  concede  that?  She  is  prompted  by  her  revenge 
and  by  her  love  of  gold  —  which  last,  you  know,  is  a 
good,  strong  motive  with  a  Scot." 

Motier  shook  his  head.     "As  you  will,  Captain,"- 
he  said,  with  a  smile,  "but  take  my  advice  and  shoot 
the  rest  of  her  kind  that  come  our  way." 

"No  fear,"  retorted  Neale.  "The  woman  who 
outwits  us  must  rise  early  and  stay  out  late."  And 
he  began  humming  some  careless  little  song. 

After  a  few  moments  the  captain's  music  stopped. 
"There's  one  thing  that  troubles  me,  Du  Val,"  he  said. 
"Should  we  capture  Husbands  to-night  —  and  I'd 
wager  my  horse  on  it  —  I  must  return  vv^ith  my 
command,  and  leave  you  to  go  on  alone.    I  don't  like 

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Wallannah 

to  turn  you  loose  in  the  wilderness ;  but  —  orders,  you 
know.    Do  you  go  much  further  ?" 

"I  think  not,"  answered  Motier,  with  reserve. 
"But  do  not  feel  anxious  on  my  account.  I'll  follow 
the  road  until  something  stops  me." 

Neale,  whose  conversational  abilities  were  immense, 
drew  closer  to  Motier,  and  made  ready  to  speak.  "It 
has  puzzled  me  to  conceive  what  brings  you  to  this 
heathen  country,  Du  Val,"  he  said,  settling  back  into 
his  saddle  and  letting  his  horse  pick  his  own  way.  "I 
cannot  ask  you,  for  the  question  would  be  indelicate; 
but  it  seems  legitimate  for  me  to  make  suggestions. 
If  it  is  your  purpose  to  locate  lands,  the  direction 
of  our  present  course  will  soon  bring  you  into  an 
uninhabited  region  of  great  resources.  But  if  you  bear 
too  far  to  the  right,  you'll  find  yourself  in  a  part  of  the 
world  where  mystery,  if  not  enchantment,  abounds. 
If  your  course  goes  that  way,  you  could  scour  the 
Carolinas  without  finding  a  corporal's  guard  to  go 
there  with  you." 

"Really,  Captain,"  said  Alotier,  smiling,  "my 
curiosity  is  rampant." 

"Then  I  will  gratify  it  —  at  least,  as  far  as  I  can. 
As  to  the  land,  my  knowledge  was  all  gained  from 
Tryon.  I  am  as  much  a  stranger  in  these  parts  as  you 
are,  but  the  governor,  when  he  came  up  here  to  make 
his  survey  of  the  Cherokee  boundary,  found  large 
sections  of  country  unoccupied  except  by  scattered 
tribes  of  Indians.  This  land  he  thought  inferior  to 
none  in  the  province ;  and  he  spoke  of  making  entries 
for  himself  on  speculation. 

"Now,  the  region  of  mystery  and  enchantment  — 

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An  Awkward  Surprise 

and  it  has  been  a  theme  for  winter  night  talks  in  my 
home  since  my  childhood  —  it  is  a  curious  thing.  My 
grandfather,  who  was  a  great  hunter,  spent  much  time 
in  these  mountains  and  my  father  followed  closely  in 
his  footsteps.  Both  have  told  marvelous  tales  of  what 
they  had  heard  and  seen. 

"In  olden  times,  a  gentlemanly  cut-throat  known 
as  Bloody  Jack  used  to  pounce  upon  the  early 
settlements  and,  with  a  formidable  band  of  his  peers, 
commit  all  sorts  of  depredations  wherever  he  went. 
The  settlers  would  often  take  their  guns  and  give 
chase ;  but  on  each  occasion  Jack  and  his  men  would 
lose  themselves  in  the  mountains.  At  last,  when 
neither  life  nor  property  was  secure,  the  people  rose 
en  masse  and  surrounded  the  place  where  the  bandits 
usually  made  their  disappearance.  Instead  of  seeking 
a  refuge,  Jack  and  his  men  broke  through  the  ranks  of 
their  pursuers  and  got  inside  their  circle,  which  was 
nearly  a  mile  in  diameter. 

"This  was  what  the  settlers  wanted.  So,  keeping 
the  outlaws  always  in  sight,  they  closed  in  upon  them. 
Jack  led  the  way  to  a  bleak  looking  mountain  which 
the  Indians  called  Yaunocca.  At  the  foot  of  this  peak 
the  bandits  turned  and  fired  a  volley  at  their  pursuers. 
The  guns  were  aimed  low  and  the  smoke  rolled  along 
over  the  ground.  When  it  lifted  and  blew  away,  Jack 
and  his  whole  band  had  vanished. 

"The  astonished  settlers  searched  the  whole 
landscape  but  found  no  trace  of  the  men  or  of  their 
lair.  Some  said  the  mountain  opened  to  receive  them, 
and  closed  up  again ;  some  visionary  fellows  swore 
that  the  men  rose  into  the  air  and  flew  away ;    and 

265 


Wallannah 

others  of  similar  mental  calibre  concluded  that  the 
robber  band  was  something  more  than  human.  Within 
a  week,  however,  Jack  and  his  crowd  were  at  their  old 
tricks. 

"By  and  by  they  disappeared  altogether.  Years 
passed,  and  the  story  had  become  a  tradition ;  and  even 
that  was  dying  out,  when  all  at  once  the  mountain 
became  the  centre  of  a  new  mystery.  A  beautiful 
woman  was  seen  walking  about  the  rocks  and  crags. 
Here,  there,  and  everywhere,  she  appeared ;  and  even 
while  the  amazed  people  looked  at  her  she  would 
vanish  out  of  view.  They  say  that  she  is  still  in  the 
mountains ;  and  the  people  round  about  here  believe 
her  to  be  Bloody  Jack's  daughter." 

"A  wild  story,"  said  Motier,  laughing,  "but  at  all 
events  an  interesting  one.  What  do  they  call  this 
woman  ?" 

"Wallannah  —  an  Indian  name." 

Motier  started  a  little  at  the  captain's  answer. 
"Does  she  speak  to  those  who  approach  her?"  he  asked. 

"Indeed  yes ;  in  any  language." 

"Seems  a  queer  thing,"  said  Du  Val,  thoughtfully. 
"What  do  you  think  of  the  story?" 

"I  ?  I  think  nothing :  I  only  repeat  what  I  have' 
heard.  The  Indians  hold  her  in  great  veneration  and 
call  her  a  prophetess.  But,  Du  Val,  twilight  is  upon 
us;  we  must  quicken  our  pace.  That  confounded 
smoke  is  as  far  away  as  ever." 

"Farther,  I  should  say,"  Motier  answered.  "A  few 
minutes  and  the  darkness  will  shut  out  that  landmark 
from  our  view." 

"Distances    are    deceptive,"    replied    Neale.      "As 

266 


An  Awkward  Surprise 

much  so  through  these  valleys  as  across  water.  I  well 
remember  —  But  listen !"  He  reined  up  his  horse  and 
held  up  his  hand  to  halt  the  men  behind  them. 

"Horses,"  said  Du  Val. 

"Some  travelers  along  the  ridge,"  suggested  the 
captain. 

"Noise  enough  for  a  royal  guard." 

"Cattle,  probably.  This  region  is  a  great  grazing 
ground.  Cattle,  you  know,  constitute  the  wealth  of 
these  people.  But  the  sounds  have  passed  beyond  us ; 
let's  move  ahead.  Ahead,  my  men !  We  must  eat  and 
sleep  to-night."  As  he  spoke  they  emerged  from  the 
woods  and  entered  an  open  glade,  girt  about  by  large 
trees  and  thick  undergrowth. 

Suddenly  Motier  pulled  back  his  horse.  Neale 
made  a  swift  reach  for  his  sword.  The  sound  of 
breaking  branches  and  ripping  leaves  broke  upon  the 
air;  and  with  a  wild  chorus  of  yells  a  hundred  Indians 
burst  into  the  glade. 

The  struggle  was  a  short  one.  The  soldiers,  riding 
at  ease,  without  thought  of  danger,  had  no  time  to 
reach  their  weapons  before  they  were  unhorsed  and 
tightly  bound.  Neale  went  down  before  his  sword  was 
half  unsheathed.  Motier  alone  made  a  show  of 
defense.  Facing  a  half  dozen  of  the  painted  warriors, 
and  seeing  that  life  was  a  mere  chance,  he  determined 
to  fight  while  he  could.  Pulling  a  pistol  from  beneath 
his  coat  he  pushed  it  against  the  chest  of  the  nearest 
Indian  and  fired.  His  other  assailants  hesitated  long 
enough  for  the  Frenchman  to  draw  another  pistol ;  but, 
seeing  him  ready  for  his  second  shot,  they  sprang 
forward  with  uplifted  hatchets.    Motier,  with  the  same 

267 


Wallannah 

slight  smile  that  always  hovered  about  his  lips  when 
death  looked  him  in  the  face,  waited  until  his  foes  were 
almost  at  his  horse's  head.  Then  he  raised  his  pistol 
and  his  finger  pressed  the  trigger.  At  that  moment, 
when  two  lives  were  all  but  at  their  end,  a  loud  shout 
sounded  about  the  din  of  conflict. 

"Sau-hau!    Yenxauhe!" 

The  savages  stopped  suddenly ;  Motier  lowered  his 
pistol ;  and  all  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  call. 

Out  of  the  gloom  of  the  overhanging  trees  rode 
Herman  Husbands. 


268 


A  Move  Forestalled 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


A  Move  Forestalled 


USBANDS  rode  forward  among  the  Indians 
and  spoke  to  them  in  their  own  language. 
They  were  angry,  and  pointed  frequently  to 
the  motionless  form  of  the  warrior  whom 
Motier  had  shot.  The  argument  was  a  long  one, 
but  at  last  the  Quaker's  efforts  met  with  success, 
and  his  red-skinned  friends  replaced  their  weapons 
in  their  belts  and  gave  attention  to  their  wounded 
comrade. 

Husbands  approached  the  prisoners.  "Captain 
Neale,"  he  said,  saluting,  "a  woman  back  yonder  on 
the  Devil's  Ridge  promised  to  send  or  bring  Herman 
Husbands  to  you  to-night.    She  has  kept  her  word." 

Neale,  standing  against  a  tree,  smiled  and  said: 
"Wish  she'd  been  in  the  devil's  claws  instead  of  on  his 
back,"  he  muttered.    "Tell  her  so,  with  my  regards." 

"You  forget  your  gallantry.  Captain,"  returned 
Husbands.  "But  not  for  the  first  time,  perhaps.  Allow 
me,  before  we  part,  to  give  you  a  little  advice  after  the 
good  woman's  own  manner."  Then,  in  the  sharp 
falsetto  tones  which  were  still  fresh  in  the  captain's 
memory,  "  'Keep  your  breath  to  cool  your  ain 
porridge';  and  'Ne'er  sca'd  your  lips  in  ither  folk's 
kale.'  " 

269 


Wallannah 

Neale's  face  reddened,  and  he  made  an  effort  to 
free  himself  from  the  cords  that  bound  his  hands. 
"Husbands,"  he  said,  with  bitterness,  "you  take 
ungenerous  advantage  of  my  position.  But,  as  you 
are  fond  of  proverbs,  let  me  remind  you  that  'Every 
dog  will  have  his  day.'  " 

"And  you  had  yours  at  the  Alamance,"  responded 
Husbands,  quietly  and  in  his  natural  voice.  ''But,  Met 
bygones  be  bygones.'  I  did  not  come  to  tantalize  you: 
Heaven  knows  my  own  troubles  weigh  heavily  enough, 
I  might  say,  for  your  information,  that  these  Indians 
are  in  arms  as  friends  of  the  Regulators.  They  hate 
the  governor"  and  everything  that  is  his.  I  think, 
however,  that  if  you  do  nothing  to  anger  them,  they 
will  give  you  little  trouble.  If  you  try  to  escape,  you 
may  as  well  say  your  last  prayer.  You  and  your  men 
will  be  prisoners  until  I  and  a  few  others,  whom  your 
precious  government  is  driving  from  the  province,  are 
beyond  your  reach.  I  am  going  away  from  Carolina 
to  a  land  where  men  can  be  men.  So,  you  need  hunt 
me  no  longer."  Passing  by  Du  Val,  who,  unhorsed 
and  tightly  bound,  sat  upon  a  log,  Husbands  bent 
toward  him.  "A  bad  business,  Monsieur  Du  Val. ' 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  hope  the  wounded  man  may 
not  die.  But  in  any  event  be  prudent.  I  cannot  help 
you  more  than  to  send  to  you  one  who  may  be  able  to 
give  you  aid."  He  turned  his  horse's  head  to  the 
woods,  and  with  a  nod  to  the  circle  of  warriors, 
disappeared  into  the  forest. 

The  night  was  now  upon  them;  and  the  Indians, 
placing  their  wounded  comrade  upon  a  hastily  made 
litter  of  saplings  and  branches,  gave  each  of  their 

270 


A  Move  Forestalled         (\d^ 

prisoners  into  the  charg^e  of  a  warrior.  The  captives 
were  quickly  stripped  of  everything  of  value  except 
their  clothing,  and  v^ere  led  into  the  woods  on  the 
westward  march.  Motier.  and  Neale  and  the  soldiers 
walked  behind  the  litter ;  and  after  them  rode  the  older 
savages. 

In  this  manner  they  went  their  silent  way,  over  hills 
and  through  valleys,  by  beaten  paths  and  in  tangled 
byways,  wading  small  streams  and  climbing  over 
rugged  rocks.  And  Motier  thought  the  night  the 
longest  he  had  ever  passed.  To  the  white  men  it  was 
a  weary  march,  and  their  feet  and  legs  throbbed  and 
stiffened  long  before  the  coming  of  the  dawn. 
Sometimes,  when  fatigue  all  but  overcame  them,  and 
they  lagged  but  ever  so  little  in  their  gait,  their 
unpitying  guards,  themselves  showing  no  sign  of 
weariness,  pushed  and  dragged  them  forward  in  a  way 
that  gave  no  hope  of  rest.  Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  they 
went  through  the  livelong  night.  And  all  the  sound 
their  marching  made,  came  from  the  beat  of  the  horses' 
unshod  hoofs  and  from  the  booted  step  of  the 
prisoners;  for  the  moccasined  tread  of  the  savage  is 
as  noiseless  as  the  panther's  footfall. 

Besides  the  slight  sounds  of'  their  movement  over 
the  ground  little  came  .to  the  captives'  ears  save  the 
tinkle  of  the  metal  bangles-  upon  the  ankles  of  the 
Indians.  This  music. was  so  faint  and  so  overpowering 
in  its  monotony  that  Motier  could  hardly  keep  awake. 
Now  and  then,  it  is  true,  they  heard  the  weird  cry 
of  some  startled  night-bird  or  the  barking  of  a  dog  in 
a  far-away  valley,  and,  oftener  than  these,  the  murmur 
of  Abater  rippling  over  rocks  that  lay  far  below  their 

271 


^ 


Wallannah 

path.    But  these  faint  sounds  seemed  but  to  make  the 
stillness  deeper. 

At  last,  after  hours  and  hours  of  struggling  on 
through  the  dark,  the  sky  behind  them  took  on  the 
grey  that  comes  before  the  sun's  rising.  Then  it  was 
that  they  found  their  course  to  be  several  points  toward 
the  south  of  west ;  and  Motier  knew  that  their  captors 
were  the  Cherokees,  whose  villages  lay  in  that  direction. 
He  had  heard  in  far-off  New  Bern  that  the  Indians 
were  in  their  war  paint,  and,  further,  he  remembered 
the  words  of  Sequa,  "the  beautiful,"  and  he  knew  why 
she  had  given  him  the  bracelet.  But  his  heart  sank  a 
little,  for  the  tiny  trinket  was  now  fastened  about  the 
wrist  of  the  surly  fellow  who  pulled  him  along  the 
path. 

The  Cherokees,  he  knew,  had  been  for  years  the 
allies  of  the  white  man ;  but  he  also  knew  that  latterly 
they  had  become  jealous  and  exacting  in  their  dealings 
with  the  other  race.  If  they  had  awaited  a  favorable 
opportunity  to  break  through  the  flimsy  bonds  of  their 
peace  treaty,  their  time  seemed  now  to  have  come.  The 
hand  of  Tryon  had  borne  hard  upon  these  children  of 
the  forest,  and  among  their  closest  friends  were  the 
men  whom  the  governor  was  striving  to  kill  or  to 
drive  to  exile.  What  more'  fitting  than  a  union  with 
the  Regulators  ?  So  they  made  common  cause  with  the 
other  foemen  of  the  king,  and  started  down  to  help 
them  fight  their  fight.  It  appeared  afterward  that  the 
alliance  was  but  partial,  and  that  few  of  the  Cherokees 
joined  the  move;  but  to  Motier's  mind  the  situation 
of  the  men  who  were  now  in  the  hands  of  the  savages 
was  a  critical  one. 

272 


A  Move  Forestalled 

Motier,  with  a  calmness  that  surprised  him,  awaited 
the  coming  of  the  hght  that  would  let  him  see  the  man 
who  lay  upon  the  litter  before  him.  If  the  fellow  were 
dead,  then  were  Du  Val's  days  less  in  number  than  the 
fingers  of  his  hand;  but  if  he  lived?  —  he  did  not 
know.  But  be  it  life  or  be  it  death,  the  pride  that  was 
in  him  made  him  swear  to  give  no  sign  of  fear  or  of 
pain  to  the  men  who  called  him  captive. 

They  were  winding  up  through  the  shadowy  depths 
of  a  moss-bedded  glen.  Above  them,  high  on  the 
ragged  heights  of  the  cliffs  that  pointed  skyward,  the 
red  glow  of  the  sunlight  alternately  flamed  and  paled 
as  the  morning  mists  opened  and  closed  before  the  sun. 
The  dusky  moving  mass  about  him  had  shaped  itself 
into  men  and  horses ;  and  the  shadows  on  either  hand 
had  opened  into  trees  and  vines  and  slimy  rocks.  The 
grey  mist  still  hung  in  the  hollows,  and  across  the  face 
of  a  grim  peak  that  loomed  at  the  opening,  of  the  vista 
before  them,  stretched  a  long  thin  finger  of  pink 
cloud. 

Du  Val  began  to  scan  the  faces  and  forms  of  the 
little  band  of  which, he  seemed  the  centre.  To  his  left 
was  Neale,  pale  and  dejected,  stumbling  over  every 
root  and  rock  which  came  in  his  way.  Behind  him 
were  four  of  his  soldiers  trudging  on  with  sullen  faces, 
and  muttering  oaths  as  they  walked.  At  Motier's  right 
were  the  rest  of  the  rangers,  some  walking  in  good 
form  and  showing  little  fatigue,  others  staggering  as 
thev  went  and  meeting  with  scant  consideration  from 
their  scowling  guides.  The  Indians  were  naked  to  the 
waist,  and  their  faces  and  bodies  were  gleaming  with 
hideous  painted  emblems.    Their  heads,  bare  save  for 

273" 


Wallannah 

the  scalp-lock  at  the  crown,  were  topped  with  clus'teirs 
of  feathers  tipped  with  blood.  Their  breech-clouts  and 
leggings  were  fringed  and  spangled,  and  their  dirty 
moccasins  gleamed  with  fancy  bead-work.  None 
seemed  armed  with  guns,  but  each  carried  in  his  belt 
a  keen-edged  tomahawk.  With  a  strange  fascination 
Du  Val  watched  these  silent,  grim-faced  savages  as 
they  marched  with  light,  untiring  step  through  the 
forest.  Their  bodies  gleamed  with  some  bad-smelling 
grease,  and  beneath  the  oil  and  the  paint  he  could  see 
the  easy  rise  and  fall  of  muscles  that  seemed  never  to 
cease  their  play.  But  he  could  not  see  the  man  upon 
the  litter. 

At  last  they  reached  the  head  of  the  glen  and 
stepped  with  startling  suddenness  into  a  wide  glade 
bright  with  sunshine  and  green  with  a  carpet  of  waving 
grass.  The  Indians  spread  their  ranks  into  a  more 
open  formation,  and  Motier  was  pushed  to  a  place  close 
behind  the  wounded  brave.  He  looked  at  the  man 
who  lay  upon  the  litter,  and  saw  that  he  still  Hved.  At 
the  time,  he  did  not  know  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry. 
If  his  life  depended  upon  the  man's  recovery,  he  felt 
that  he  might  give  reasonable  thanksgiving  that  the 
savage  heart  still  beat;  but  if  death  were  to  come 
anyway,  he  wished  that  he  might  have  placed  his  pistol 
more  to  the  right,  for  the  ragged  hole  in  his  chest  was 
an  inch  too  far  the  other  way.  The  blood  oozed  from 
the  wound  in  little  foamy  bubbles,  and  he  knew  that 
his  shot  had  found  its  way  through  the  lung.  The 
man's  features  were  sharp  and  rigid,  and  his  eyes  half 
closed ;  but  no  sound  came  -from  his  lips,  except  when 
a  hard-drawn  breath  would  suck  through  his  clenched 

274 


A  Move  Forestalled 

teeth.  Then,  turning  his  eyes  away  from  his  victim, 
Motier  began  to  wonder  when  the  deliverer  of  whom 
Husbands  had  spoken  would  come. 

Half  way  across  the  sunny  glade  the  savages  halted 
by  the  bank  of  a  stream  that,  scarcely  wider  than  a 
man's  step  is  long,  rippled  over  the  gravel  between 
waving  lines  of  green.  They  laid  the  litter  upon  the 
ground,  and  from  the  rear  guard  came  an  old  man, 
dressed  in  a  great  variety  of  skins  and  furs  and 
feathers,  and  v/ith  a  face  that,  clean  and  unpainted, 
lacked  but  a  nose  to  make  it  seem  human.  Whether 
war  or  disease  had  made  the  man's  face  flat  as  the 
palm  of  a  hand,  Motier  could  not  guess,  but  he  did 
know  that  this  hideous  creature  was  the  medicine-man 
of  the  tribe.  As'  the  man  walked  across  to  the  Htter 
the  sun  glittered  on  the  rows  of  bears'  claws  and 
sharks'  teeth  that  swung  from  his  neck  and  wrists ;  and 
the  dull  red  figures  on  the  outer  side  of  the  hide  which 
hung  cloak-like  about  his  tall,  ungainly  figure  seemed 
to  glow  like  blood  in  the  morning  light. 

Motier  watched  the  doctor  closely  as  he  bent  over 
the  wounded  warrior ;  for  he  knew  that  on  this  man's 
word  might  hang  his  own  life.  He  knew  from  the 
lowering  looks  and  grumbling  comments  of  the  savages 
that  the  medicine-man's  report  was  not  a  bright  one. 
But  he  felt  relieved  when  a  young  brave  dipped  some 
water  from  the  brook  and  washed  the  wound.  ''None 
but  a  fool  would  wash  a  d}'ing  Indian,"  he  reflected. 
"This  fellow  must  have  some  chance  of  life." 

Building  a  fire  by  some  feat  o.f  barbarous  ingenuity, 
the  doctor  stewed  a  decoction  of  herbs  and  applied  it  to 
the  patient's  chest.    In  something  like  a  half  hour  the 

275 


Wallannah 

man  had  fallen  asleep  and  the  beaded  sweat  stood  out 
upon  his  face  and  shoulders. 

In  the  mean  time  the  younger  men  had  lighted  a 
fire  of  their  own  and  were  preparing  the  morning  meal. 
The  odor  of  the  smoking  meat  drifted  to  Motier's 
nostrils,  and  its  savor  was  maddening ;  for  neither  he 
nor  his  companions  had  tasted  food  since  noon  of  the 
day  before,  and  hunger  such  as  theirs  can  be  felt  from 
the  head  down  to  the  feet. 

Captain  Neale,  watching  with  wistful  eyes  a  piece 
of  venison  that  sputtered  on  the  coals  close  by  his  side, 
forgot  the  discretion  which  had  kept  him  silent  through 
the  night.  "Say,  Du  Val,"  he  whispered,  "suppose  the 
gentlemen  will  ask  us  to  join  the  feast?"  A  slap  from 
a  warrior's  dirty  hand  stopped  further  remark. 

But  Neaie  did  not  know  the  Indian  heart;  for  the 
prisoners,  with  hands  unbound,  were  lined  up  within 
the  circle  of  the  red  men  and  were  given  their  food 
before  their  captors  took  a  mouthful.  An  Indian  will 
divide  his  last  morsel  with  his  bitterest  enemy,  and  will 
seldom  even  lead  a  man  to  the  stake  without  first 
offering  him  the  best  from  his  store  of  food. 

After  an  hour  of  rest  and  refreshment,  which  the 
men  sorely  needed,  the  march  was  resumed  in  the  same 
order  as  before.  At  noon  they  stopped  again  and 
dined,  the  Indians  eating  gluttonously.  After  the  meal 
all,  captor  and  captive  alike,  lay  on  the  soft  grass  and 
slept.  The  guards  took  no  further  precaution  with 
their  prisoners  than  to  fasten  about  their  own  wrists 
the  ends  of  the  thongs  which  bound  the  white  men's 
arms. 

As  soon  as  the  camp  seemed  in  perfect  quiet,  Motier 

276 


A  Move  Forestalled 

raised  his  head  and  looked  about  him.  He  could  see 
the  men,  white  and  red,  clustered  about  in  little  knots, 
but  none  of  them  seemed  awake.  Even  the  five  guards, 
who  were  sitting  with  their  backs  against  as  many 
great  oaks,  were  deep  in  slumber.  Du  Val  looked  down 
at  the  deerskin  cord  that  bound  him  to  his  captor.  It 
was  drawn  tight  between  them.  He  worked  himself 
closer  to  the  sleeping  Indian,  and  the  thong,  slackening, 
sagged  until  its  middle  touched  the  ground.  Then, 
closing  his  fists,  he  strained  his  wrists  apart  until  one 
of  the  knots  gave  way  the  veriest  trifle.  He  rested  a 
moment  and  looked  about  him.  Fleetfoot,  picketed  to 
a  slender  bush,  stood  but  a  few  yards  away.  With  his 
eyes  still  shifting  from  one  Indian  to  another  he 
resumed  the  slow  straining  at  his  bonds.  Between  him 
and  Fleetfoot  lay  half  a  dozen  sleeping  savages,  but 
beside  each  of  them  was  a  space  wide  enough  for  a 
safe  footing.  The  carbines  of  the  soldiers  were  stacked 
on  the  further  side  of  the  glade  near  one  of  the 
dreaming  guards.  He  cast  his  eyes  down  to  the 
red-skin  at  his  side.  A  tomahawk  lay  within  the  grasp 
of  the  half-relaxed  grimy  fingers.  IMotier  had  one 
hand  half  through  the  circle  of  buckskin.  His  guard 
moved  a  little  and  muttered  in  his  sleep.  Motier  gave 
a  quick  pull  with  his  arm  and  the  thongs  slipped  to  the 
ground.  His  hands  free,  he  began  working  his  way 
toward  Fleetfoot.  With  a  sudden  thought  he  looked 
back  at  his  guard. 

"Hist!"  The  whispered  signal  seemed  like  a 
thunder-clap  in  the  Frenchman's  ears. 

Motier,  dropping  back  to  his  former  position,  ran 
his  eyes  quickly  about  the  circle.    An  Indian  warrior, 

277 


Wallannah 

his  paint-streaked  face  distorted  with  a  frown,  and  his 
hand  grasping  a  heavy  tomahawk,  stood  within  an 
arm's  length. 

Motier,  knowing  what  fate  to  expect,  hardened  his 
face  into  a  look  of  indifference,  and  returned  the  stare 
of  the  savage's  glaring  eyes.  ''Well  ?"  he  said,  quietly, 
"what  do  you  — " 

But  he  did  not  finish  his  question. 


278 


Some  Heathen  Justice 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Some  Heathen  Justice 

U  VAL'S  inquiry,  prompted  by  a  spirit  of 
bravado,  was  cut  short  by  a  sign  of  caution 
from  the  Indian.  "No  talk  —  no  move," 
the  savage  v^hispered.  "Indian  kill.  Me 
friend."  And  the  m.an  raised  his  wrist  and  showed  the 
bracelet  which  Sequa  had  fastened  to  Motier's  arm  on 
the  way  to  the  Alamance.  "Me  Tetah,"  the  chief 
continued.  "Save  him  pale- face.  Tie  'g'in  —  quick !" 
And  he  stooped  beside  Motier,  and  with  a  few  quick 
turns  bound  his  hands  as  close  as  they  had  been  before. 
"Now  go  sleep,"  he  whispered.  "Move  more  —  Indian 
kill."    He  sank  to  the  ground  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Motier  lay  looking  at  the  sky  above  him.  High 
overhead  circled  a  buzzard,  a  tiny  speck  against  the 
blue.  A  smile  crossed  the  young  man's  face.  "If  he 
flies  to  the  north,"  he  muttered,  under  his  breath,  "I'll 
go  to  sleep ;   if  he  goes  south  I'll  watch  the  thing  out." 

The  bird  rested  a  moment,  then  with  a  long 
downward  swoop  turned  his  head  away  from  the  sun. 
Motier  drew  a  long  breath,  closed  his  eyes,  and  in  a 
moment  had  dropped  asleep. 

Toward  the  evening  of  the  next  day  the  warrior 
band  with  its  little  herd  of  captives  approached  a  village 
from   which   thin,    wavering   lines    of    smoke,    rising 

279 


Wallannah 

lazily  above  the  trees,  had  been  visible  for  several 
hours.  Rather  to  Motier's  surprise  Tetah  had  taken 
no  further  notice  of  his  grandson's  Caiheek.  They  had 
met  frequently  on  the  march,  but  during  their  intervals 
of  rest  the  Indian's  eyes  never  sought  the  Frenchman's 
face.  Motier,  trusting  in  the  chieftain's  promise,  cared 
little  for  his  present  indifference  if,  in  the  end,  he 
would  keep  his  word. 

They  had  left  the  forest  and  were  passing  between 
fields  of  corn  and  of  oats,  small  enclosures  protected 
for  the  greater  part  by  hedges  of  thorny  bushes.  Here 
and  there  a  dark,  half  clad  figure  moved  about,  and 
women  with  their  pappooses  were  seen  working  among 
the  ragged  rov/s  of  green. 

As  they  drew  nearer  to  the  rising  smoke  the 
procession  halted,  and  four  savages  stepped  to  the 
front.  Holding  their  arms  above  their  heads  they 
opened  their  mouths  in  a  long  yell,  as  clear  as  though 
it  came  from  but  one  man's  throat.  Then,  lowering 
their  clenched  fists  to  their  sides  they  bent  slightly 
forward  and  gave  fourteen  short  and  deafening 
whoops.    These  told  the  number  of  their  prisoners. 

There  were  faint  answering  shouts  from  beyond 
the  trees,  and  with  them  the  pounding  of  drums  and 
the  barking  of  dogs.  The  march  was  resumed,  and 
as  they  neared  the  outskirts  of  the  town  there  came  to 
meet  them  a  great  swarm  of  women  and  children, 
talking  excitedly  and  cutting  the  air  with  sticks  and 
clubs  and  sv/itches.  The  captives  guessed  and  guessed 
rightly  that  these  things  were  meant  to  give  a  merry 
welcome  to  the  prisoners;  for  the  crowd  lined  up  on 
either  side  of  the  road  and  with  jeers  and  laughs  made 

280 


Some  Heathen  Justice 

ready  for  their  sport.  But  Tetah  stepping  forward 
spoke  a  few  words  of  command,  and  the  implements 
of  torture  were  dropped  to  the  ground.  Quietly  the 
band  marched  into  the  village,  warriors  and  captives, 
the  first  to  find  a  welcome  home,  the  others  —  who 
could  tell  ? 

Du  \'al,  whose  pistol  practice  had  given  him  the 
distinction  of  a  prisoner  of  honor,  was  separated  from 
his  companions  and  was  lodged  in  a  strongly-built 
cabin,  with  a  warrior  of  forbidding  aspect  as  his 
custodian.  This  man  and  his  wrinkled,  driveling 
mother  were  Motier's  only  companions  for  three  long 
days.  And  poor  company  they  were,  for  English  and 
French  were  to  them  as  their  vile  Cherokee  was  to 
Motier,  and  all  their  converse  was  in  signs  that 
sometimes  went  aright,  but  oftener  brought  to  pass 
strange  complications. 

By  the  end  of  the  third  day  the  suspense  had  begun 
to  wear  on  Motier.  Much  of  his  spirit  had  left  hirn, 
and  he  thought  too  often  of  the  things  of  his  former 
days.  Lucille  came  into  his  mind  with  a  morbid 
frequency,  and  he  fought  his  thoughts  of  her  as  a 
man  fights  death  itself.  Once,  when  the  depths  of  his 
soul  seemed  as  dark  as  the  night  about  him,  his  mind 
went  back  to  the  sobbing  figure  that,  gowned  in  amber 
silk,  had  met  his  eyes  as  he  turned  back  at  the  doorway 
before  he  went  down  to  the  ten  o'clock  council  of  war. 
He  felt  a  little  choking  in  his  throat,  and  began  to  wish 
for  his  pipe  and  some  tobacco ;  for  few  things  can  give 
surcease  of  care  so  soon  as  the  weed  that  the  Indians 
call  uppowoc.  Then,  with  a  suddenness  that  startled 
him,  came  the  vision  of  Alice  De  Vere,  white-gowned 

281 


Wallannah 

and  blue-eyed,  as  she  had  looked  at  the  head  of  her 
father's  table  on  the  morning  that  seemed  so  far  in  the 
past.  He  tried  to  laugh  away  the  memory ;  but  time  and 
again  it  surged  back  upon  him.  He  seemed  to  hear 
her  voice  over  and  above  the  heavy  breathing  of  his 
guard,  and  the  ripple  of  her  laughter  shut  from  his 
ears  the  chirp  of  the  crickets  in  the  vines  upon  the  roof. 
And  as  he  thought  he  wondered;  for  in  those  days  at 
Beechwood  and  in  the  weeks  that  followed  he  had 
thought  of  her  as  one  thinks  of  a  new-found  friend. 
But  these  thoughts?  He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands 
and  tried  to  reason  out  what  it  all  meant.  But  his 
sophistries  gave  him  no  relief.  As  fast  as  he  shut  the 
vision  from  his  eyes  and  the  music  from  his  ears,  the 
vision  and  the  music  would  come  back  again  with 
tenfold  force ;  and  as  daylight  broke  over  the  foothills 
toward  the  east  he  knew  that  his  heart  turned  more  to 
Alice  De  Vere  than  it  had  ever  turned  to  Lucille 
Creighton.  Dreary  though  his  prospect  the  thought 
gave  him  comfort,  and  he  looked  to  the  rising  sun  with 
a  smile  on  his  lips. 

On  the  fourth  day  of  Motier's  imprisonment  Tetah 
came  into  his  cabin,  and  with  an  imperious  move  of  the 
hand  sent  the  surly  jailer  from  the  room.  The  old  chief 
had  laid  aside  his  scanty  war-attire  and  had  washed 
the  paint  from  his  face.  His  garb  now  was  the 
buckskin  dress  of  the  hunter,  and  his  features  appeared 
gentle  and  refined. 

When  the  guard  had  gone  Tetah  held  up  the  wrist 
with  the  bead-work  bracelet.  "Where  you  get  him?" 
he  asked. 

•  "From  Sequa/'  was  Motier's  answer. 

282 


Some  Heathen  Justice 

"YouTontaCaiheek?" 

Du  Val  nodded  his  response. 

The  Indian  looked  closely  at  him.  "Me  save  you 
for  Tonta,"  he  said  simply. 

"You're  a  good  fellow,"  replied  Motier,  seeing  that 
Tetah  expected  some  response.  "Tell  me  what  to  do 
to  help  you  ?" 

"Sick  man  —  Usquaughne  —  die." 

"Dead !"  repeated  Motier,  with  some  show  of 
feeling.    "When  did  he  die?" 

"Not  dead  —  but  die  soon.    Hear?" 

Motier,  listening,  heard  a  sound  like  the  rattling 
of  dice  in  a  cup.  He  had  heard  it  often  before, 
but  had  not  known  its  meaning.  "What  is  it?"  he 
asked. 

"How!  Don't  know?  Him  chinchone.  Doctor 
rattle  him  —  cure  sick  man.  Sick  .man  most  die  — 
rattle  easy." 

"Then  the  man  is  in  the  next  room?  He  must  be 
close  to  his  end !  The  rattle  has  nearly  stopped.  But 
if  he  dies  —  what  then?" 

"Indian  have  big  talk.  Say  warrior  die,  pale-face 
die  too." 

"Good  logic;  but  you  say  you  can  save  me?" 

"Me  save  you.  Yes.  Twelve  pale-face  —  one  die. 
Take  soldier  —  Tonta  Caiheek  no  die."  The  old  man's 
face  glowed  with  pleasure.  A  life  for  a  life  is  a  motto 
as  good  for  an  Indian  as  it  was  for  the  Israelite  of  old ; 
but,  differing  from  the  other,  this  law  sometimes  adapts 
its  justice  to  a  substitute.  The  life  of  the  slayer  is  not 
always  the  forfeit. 

Tetah  seemed  surprised  at  the  shadow  which  came 

283 


Wallannah 

to  the  white  man's  face,  which  he  had  expected  to  show 
some  sign  of  satisfaction. 

But  Motier  shook  his  head  with  convincing 
firmness.  "I  must  thank  you,  my  friend,"  he  said, 
"for  what  you  wish  to  do  for  me ;  but  it  cannot  be  as 
you  have  said.  It  was  I  who  struck  down  your 
warrior;  if  any  one  suffers,  I  must  be  that  one." 

When  the  astounded  warrior  saw  that  Du  Val's 
mind  was  fixed  in  its  determination,  he  was  visibly 
moved.  "Good  Caiheek,"  he  said,  stretching  out  his 
hand,  "but  too  good.  Tonta  love  Caiheek  —  me  love 
him  too.  Maybe  live  —  maybe  die,  Tetah  save  if  he 
can."    And  he  turned  quickly  and  left  the  hut. 

When  Du  Val  awoke  at  sunrise  the  next  day  he 
listened  first  for  the  rattle  which  would  tell  him 
whether  Usquaughne  was  living  or  dead.  And  if  ever 
music  sounded  sweet  in  the  ear  of  man,  the  rattle  of 
dried  peas  in  the  medicine-man's  gourd  was  that  music. 
The  noise  of  the  chinchone  was  loud  and  steady. 

Other  sounds  came  to  the  captive's  ears,  sounds 
that  even  he  could  not  mistake.  Drums  of  heathenish 
tone  banged  and  boomed  at  frequent  intervals,  and  a 
high-pitched,  wailing  chorus  trembled  through  the  air. 

"My  ears  burn,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  rose  from 
the  mat  on  which  he  had  slept.  "Those  choristers  must 
be  singing  that  ballad  for  me." 

Motier  walked  toward  the  opening,  where  stood  his 
surly  guard;  but  before  he  reached  his  goal  four 
gayly  painted  warriors  entered  the  room.  Motier 
scanned  their  faces  with  an  assumed  carelessness,  then 
turned  his  back  to  them  and  retraced  his  steps  to  the 
other  side  of  the  hut.    One  Indian  followed  him,  and 

284 


Some  Heathen  Justice 

placed  his  hand  on  Motier's  shoulder.  The  Frenchman 
turned.  The  warrior  pointed  to  the  door ;  and  the  little 
party,  with  Motier  in  its  centre,  went  out  into  the  open 
air. 

The  escort  led  Du  Val  into  the  council  lodge,  a  long, 
low  structure  with  a  double  row  of  seats  about  the 
walls,  and  with  several  large  mats  on  its  earthen  floor. 
The  tallest  and  most  fantastically  decorated  warrior 
motioned  Du  Val  to  a  seat  upon  the  smallest  of  these 
mats,  and  handed  him  a  lighted  pipe.  Motier  seized 
the  offering  with  avidity.  It  drew  badly,  and  he 
pressed  down  the  tobacco  with  his  forefinger.  When 
he  looked  up  he  was  alone  in  the  lodge. 

Affecting  an  indifference  which  he  did  not  feel, 
Motier  puffed  away  at  the  long-stemmed  pipe  until  it 
sputtered  in  the  bottom  of  the  bowl  and  went  out. 
Then  came  a  sound  of  rattling,  for  all  the  world  like 
the  noise  of  the  medicine-man's  chinchone;  and  a 
villainous-looking  savage,  arrayed  in  furs  and  painted 
skms,  and  jingling  with  the  teeth  and  bones  and  metal 
ornaments  that  hung  from  the  edges  of  his  garments, 
rushed  into  the  room  and  with  a  furious  sweep  of  the 
arm  scratched  a  ragged  circle  on  the  ground  in  front 
ef  Motier's  mat.  Then,  jumping  into  the  centre  of  this 
space,  he  began  a  mad  dance,  accompanying  his 
contortions  with  a  screeching  song.  Now  and  then, 
to  give  a  personal  interest  to  the  proceeding,  this 
dignitary  shoved  a  painted,  feather-decked  gourd  into 
Motier's  face  and  rattled  it  fiercely.  When,  after  half 
an  hour  of  maniacal  shouting,  his  incantation  died  away 
in  a  long  shriek,  the  pagan  swung  about  and  cantered 
out  of  the  room. 

285 


Wallannah 

As  the  wailing  priest  left  the  lodge,  the  tall  warrior 
who  had  led  Motier  from  his  prison  entered  with 
another  lighted  pipe. 

The  prisoner  looked  up  at  him.  "Bad  thing  to 
smoke  too  much  on  an  empty  stomach,"  he  suggested, 
mildly. 

The  Indian  answered  by  puffing  the  tobacco  into 
brighter  luminosity  and  holding  out  the  pipe  to  Motier. 
The  young  man  took  the  proffered  gift  and,  wiping 
the  mouth-piece  on  his  sleeve,  began  smoking 
desperately.  The  warrior,  uttering  a  guttural  remark 
which  was  lost  on  Motier,  stalked  from  the  lodge. 
As  his  back  disappeared  through  the  doorway,  another 
priest,  of  fiercer  aspect  than  the  first,  galloped  in  and 
went  through  antics  similar  to  those  which  had  led 
Motier  to  question  the  sanity  of  his  predecessor.  Thus 
did  the  ceremony  continue  until  Motier  had  smoked 
five  rank  and  reeking  pipes,  and  had  listened  to  the 
howling  of  five  hideous  barbarians.  Then  the  ritual 
came  to  a  close  with  a  discordant  chorus  from  the 
quintette  of  priests ;  and  the  prisoner,  after  two  long 
hours  of  smoking  and  watching,  was  again  left  to 
meditate  in  solitude  upon  the  blessings  of  Indian 
hospitality  and  the  discomforts  of  a  mouth  parched 
and  dried  with  the  concentrated  essence  of  a  lifetime's 
portion  of  tobacco-smoke. 

Soon,  however,  the  sound  of  a  statelier  chant 
came  from  the  outer  air,  gaining  in  intensity  as  it 
approached.  At  the  door  of  the  lodge  the  song  ceased ; 
a  youth  with  a  flaming  torch  came  into  the  room  and 
lit  a  pile  of  brushwood  that  lay  beneath  the  smoke-hole 
in  the  centre  of  the  roof ;  then,  as  the  fire  brightened, 

286 


Some  Heathen  Justice 

a  score  of  chiefs  and  warriors  entered  in  solemn  silence, 
and  took  their  places  on  the  great  mat  beyond  the 
circle  in  which  the  priests  had  danced.  After  them 
came  the  people  of  the  village,  men,  women  and 
children,  all  observing  the  strictest  silence. 

When  the  spectators  were  seated,  two  young 
women  brought  in  Motier's  long  wished-for  breakfast, 
and  spread  at  his  feet  the  meats  and  the  corn-cakes  of 
his  daily  fare  and  a  dozen  little  delicacies  appropriate 
to  the  present  ceremonial  occasion.  Knowing  that  he 
must  eat  what  was  given  him,  Motier  made  a  brave 
start,  studiously  refraining  from  looking  toward  the 
men  of  the  council,  and  forcing  down  everything  which 
had  been  laid  before  him. 

As  Du  Val  breakfasted,  the  council  went  into 
executive  session.  Motier  heard  speeches  and 
comments,  and  more  speeches  and  further  comments. 
At  first  these  meant  nothing  to  him  except  a  most 
annoying  noise;  but  as  the  argument  grew  warmer 
he  began  to  distinguish  between  the  voices,  and  soon 
reduced  the  number  of  active  participants  to  two  men. 

Of  these  speakers,  one  would  have  been  an  orator 
of  world-wide  fame  had  he  spoken  a  language  which 
the  world  could  have  understood.  Motier  had  never 
heard  a  voice  which  told  so  much  in  the  rise  and  fall 
of  its  tones.  The  man's  utterance  was  at  times  quick 
and  impassioned,  and  again  low  and  quiet,  with 
sometimes  an  undercurrent  of  menace  and  bitterness 
which  told  Motier  that  this  chieftain  was  the  one  who 
spoke  against  him. 

The  other  voice  was  that  of  Tetah;  always  slow 
and  deliberate,  but  as  deep  and  as  musical  as  the  one 

287 


Wallannah 

which  had  sounded  first.  It  was  the  voice  of  one 
whose  place  was  high  in  the  councils  of  the  people,  and 
it  impressed  the  captive  with  a  respect  that  bore  its 
fruit  in  the  quiet  confidence  that  this  advocate  would 
stand  between  him  and  death. 

When  Motier  had  finished  his  repast  the  tall  warrior 
refilled  and  lit  one  of  the  long  pipes,  and  Motier  again 
resigned  himself  to  a  season  of  smoking,  contemplating 
meanwhile  the  peculiar  assemblage  of  which  he  was  the 
centre.  The  chiefs  and  the  warriors  were  puffing  at 
their  pipes  and  giving  stolid  attention  to  the  one  whose 
voice  seemed  so  threatening  to  Motier.  This  man  was 
tall  and  magnificently  formed.  His  face  was  painted 
blue  on  the  one  side  and  white  on  the  other,  and  his 
chest  bore  a  great  yellow  emblem  like  a  bright-rayed 
sun  with  human  features  marked  upon  it.  He  spoke 
with  frequent  gestures,  and  Motier  saw  that  when 
his  voice  was  lowest  he  pointed  to  the  wounded 
Usquaughne,  who  lay  upon  his  litter  between  Motier 
and  the  warrior  council.  Once  he  turned  toward  the 
prisoner  and  gave  voice  to  such  a  fierce  denunciation 
that  Motier,  looking  at  him  through  a  cloud  of 
tobacco-smoke,  wished  that  he  might  get  the  fellow 
out  into  the  open  and  make  him  swallow  his  whole 
heathen  vocabulary. 

When  the  prosecutor  had  concluded,  he  returned  to 
his  place  upon  the  mat  and,  taking  a  pipe  from  the 
hand  of  a  youth,  resumed  his  smoking.  Motier  glanced 
toward  Tetah;  but  the  chief  remained  silent  and 
motionless. 

At  this  juncture  another  Indian  entered  the  lodge 
and  crossed  to  the  space  in  front  of  the  captive.    He 

.    288 


Some  Heathen  Justice 

was  of  slight  build,  but  seemed  as  lithe  and  wiry  as  a 
catamount.  His  head,  shaven  to  the  scalp-lock,  bore  its 
nodding  crown  of  colored  feathers,  and  his  face  was 
painted  in  great  cross-wise  stripes  of  green  and  yellow. 
A  mantle  of  embroidered  green  cloth  swung  from  his 
shoulders  to  the  ground,  and  above  the  hand  which 
held  its  folds  together  glistened  the  mate  to  the  bracelet 
which  Sequa  had  given  to  Alotier.  The  youth  stood 
with  respectful  mien,  his  eyes  resting  upon  the  blue 
and  white  features  of  the  accusing  chieftain. 

Then  began  the  examination  of  the  prisoner,  the 
men  of  the  council  asking  questions  of  the  interpreter, 
who  in  turn  was  expected  to  translate  them  to  the 
captive.  As  the  youth  turned  to  Motier  with  the  first 
inquiry,  the  green  mantle  parted  and  revealed  the 
swelling  ruffles  of  the  shirt-front  which  Doctor  Boggs' 
servant  had  mourned  as  lost.  At  this  mark  of  identity 
Motier  stared  with  a  satisfaction  that  he  found 
difficult  to  conceal. 

"No  call  my  name,"  said  the  youth.  "Cherokee  got 
quick  ear." 

Tetah,  who  must  have  understood  his  grandson's 
English,  made  no  sign  of  betrayal. 

"How  did  you  find  me?"  asked  Motier,  with  studied 
gravity. 

Tonta  turned  to  the  council  and  gave  some  fictitious 
answer  to  the  first  question.  The  accusing  warrior 
spoke  again. 

Tonta  turned  to  Motier.  "Big  Hat  tell  me  —  him 
Herman.    Can  my  greatfather  help  Caiheek  ?" 

"No,"  answered  Motier,  "only  by  having  Captain 
Neale  or  one  of  his  men  killed  in  my  place;  which  I 
cannot  permit."  289 


Wallannah 

"Cap'n  bad  man  —  Caiheek  good.  Let  Indian  take 
Cap'n  —  Caiheek  go." 

"No;   I  cannot  do  it." 

Tonta  again  made  an  answer  to  the  warrior's  ques- 
tion. "Maybe  save  Caiheek,"  he  said,  pretending  to 
translate  the  council's  third  query.    "Wait  —  see." 

"Who  is  the  fellow  with  the  white  and  blue  face?" 
asked  Motier. 

"No  talk  so  much,"  cautioned  Tonta.  "That 
Ocebee." 

As  Tonta  gave  the  concluding  answer  to  the 
council,  a  jingle  of  tiny  bells  sounded  in  the  doorway, 
and  the  noseless  medicine-man  came  into  the  lodge  and 
took  his  place  beside  the  interpreter.  The  men 
questioned  him  closely,  and  his  answers  seemed  to  give 
great  delight  to  the  spectators.  Tomahawks  and 
knives  were  drawn;  one  youth  brought  forth  from 
beneath  a  bench  a  bundle  of  pine  splinters;  another 
bent  forward  and  stealthily  drew  out  a  drum;  while 
still  another  went  through  a  vivid  pantomime  with  a 
stick  weighted  at  the  end  with  a  stone  as  large  as  a 
man's  head. 

Motier,  seeing  that  his  position  had  become 
interesting,  took  advantage  of  a  moment  when  the 
lodge  was  filled  with  the  hubbub  of  voices.  "What's 
the  excitement  ?"  he  whispered  to  Tonta. 

The  Indian  answered  without  turning  his  head. 
"Medicine-man  say  Usquaughne  die  if  Caiheek  live  — 
pale-face  trouble  sick  man  spirit.  Ocebee  say  Caiheek 
die." 

"Ocebee  is  a  very  pleasant  gentleman,"  murmured 
Motier. 

290 


Some  Heathen  Justice 

When  the  commotion  was  at  its  height,  Tetah, 
commanding  silence  with  a  wave  of  the  hand,  rose  to 
his  feet.  Tonta  stepped  forward  and  asked  a  question. 
The  circle  of  warrior  chiefs  nodded  in  assent.  Stepping 
to  Motier's  side  the  youth  translated  the  old  man's 
verdict.  Motier,  watching  the  chief's  gestures,  could 
readily  supply  the  words  which  Tonta  could  not  render 
in  English. 

"My  brothers,"  said  Tetah,  drawing  his  robes  about 
him,  ''the  pale-face  who  raised  his  hand  against  the 
wise  and  strong  Usquaughne  once  wore  the  red  coat 
of  the  v/arriors  of  the  Great  Wolf.  But  this  man's 
heart  was  the  heart  of  an  eagle;  and,  when  he  saw 
that  the  Great  Wolf  spilled  the  blood  of  his  own 
brothers,  he  took  off  the  red  coat  and  slept  no  more 
within  the  tents  of  the  wolf-dogs. 

"The  Eagle  Heart  is  the  friend  of  Tetah  and  of 
Tetah's  people.  When  he  raised  his  hand  to  slay  our 
brother,  he  did  not  know  that  Usquaughne  was  a 
warrior  of  the  Cherokees.  The  wise  and  mighty 
Ocebee  and  his  brother,  the  young  brave  Awahonk, 
gave  their  word  to  Wottame-Possa,  the  <jGreat-Hat 
chief,  that  the  pale-face  would  live.  Let  the  great 
warrior  of  the  Cherokees  remember  his  word,  and  ask 
of  the  pale-face  what  will  he  that  we  should  do  with 
him." 

Tonta  bent  closer  to  Motier.  "Where  picture 
Wallannah  ?"  he  asked,  quickly. 

Motier  reached  into  his  inside  pocket.  The 
miniature  was  the  only  thing  which  had  escaped  the 
plunder  at  his  capture. 

Tonta  stepped  forward  and  spoke  a  few  words. 
*  291 


Wallannah 

Motier  caught  the  name  of  Yaunocca,  which  he  knew 
to  be  the  enchanted  mountain,  and  that  of  Wallannah, 
which  now  sounded  like  music  in  his  ears.  Then  the 
young  Indian  held  out  the  miniature. 

A  fierce  discussion  followed.  Tetah,  reaching  out, 
took  the  picture  from  Tonta's  hand.  "If  Wallannah 
Manita  can  heal  the  bleeding  wounds  of  Usquaughne," 
he  said,  "the  Eagle  Heart  can  go  again  to  the  lodges  of 
his  people." 

"But  if  Usquaughne  die?"  asked  Ocebee,  with  an 
exultant  ring  in  his  voice. 

"Usquaughne  still  lives,"  was  the  quiet  response. 

The  drum  and  the  pine  splinters,  and  the 
tomahawks  and  the  war-club  were  slipped  back  to  their 
places. 

Ocebee's  face  was  not  pleasant  to  Motier's  eyes; 
but  the  captive  returned  the  warrior's  glare  with  a 
look  that  made  the  Indian's  fingers  twist  nervously 
about  the  handle  of  his  tomahawk.  However,  the 
savage  attempted  no  violence,  for  he  was  puzzled  to 
know  what  treatment  to  accord  a  man  who  had  carried 
the  picture  of  a  goddess  in  his  coat  pocket. 


292 


Wallannah  Manita 


CHAPTER  XXV 
Wallannah  Manita 


FTER  a  dinner  which  Motier  did  not  enjoy, 
his  appetite  being  impaired  by  his  heavy 
breakfast  and  by  the  sickening  effects  of 
the  excessive  smoking  of  crude  tobacco,  the 
march  to  Yaunocca  began.  The  captive,  with  hands 
bound  behind  him,  walked  after  Usquaughne's  Utter, 
and  the  savage  who  had  brought  him  the  pipes  in  the 
council  lodge  held  the  end  of  Motier's  bonds.  Twelve 
warriors  formed  the  guard,  and  Ocebee  marched  at 
their  head, 

Motier  noticed  first  of  all  the  absence  of  his  friends. 
Tetah  was  not  of  the  procession,  nor  was  Tonta; 
while  Ocebee  and  his  brother,  both  of  whom  Motier 
regarded  as  enemies,  seemed  in  unrestricted  authority. 
One  feature  of  decided  interest  to  Du  Val  was  the 
medicine-man's  evident  imcertainty  of  the  wounded 
warrior's  bodily  condition;  for  the  rattle  of  the 
chinchone  seemed  many  times  to  have  ceased.  Motier 
observed  that  on  several  such  occasions,  when  the 
gourd  gave  forth  no  sound  and  the  medicine-man  bent 
in  great  concern  over  his  patient,  the  fingers  of  the 
Cherokees  caressed  with  eager  fondness  the  handles  of 
their  tomahawks.  From  this  Motier  knew  that  when 
Usquaughne's  heart  stopped  beating  his  own  death 
would  follow  closely  after. 

293 


Wallannah 

They  travelled  slowly  and  with  frequent  stops,  and 
at  nightfall  camped  beside  a  stream  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountains.  Motier  was  unbound  while  he  ate  his 
supper,  and  also  during  the  hour  which  followed  and 
in  which  he  smoked  Ocebee's  brother's  extra  pipe. 
After  that,  and  until  he  lay  down  to  sleep,  he  amused 
himself  by  watching  the  savages  telling  of  their  deeds 
of  valor  in  the  hunt  and  on  the  battle-field;  for  he 
could  see  by  their  gestures  the  trend  of  the  stories 
which  they  told. 

He  was  awakened  early  in  the  morning.  Tonta 
had  told  him  that  his  second  sun  would  set  among  the 
mountains  of  the  great  Manita ;  and  he  knew  that  but 
a  few  hours  would  pass  before  his  fate  should  be 
known. 

The  region  which  they  entered  before  even  the  early 
mists  had  left  the  valleys  brought  to  Du  Val's  mind  the 
Alpine  borderland  of  far-away  France,  Great  rugged 
peaks  towered  high  above  the  undulating  foothills; 
and  here  and  there  the  long  downward  slope  of  a 
pine-bristling  mountain  lost  itself  in  the  grassy  level 
of  the  plain  below.  Sometimes  from  the  brink  of  a 
great  precipice  they  could  look  across  a  wide  valley 
to  range  after  range  of  mountains,  dark  and  gloomy 
in  the  middle  distance  and  running  the  scale  of  the 
greens  and  the  purples  and  the  blues  until  the  furthest 
of  them  merged  into  the  soft-hued  sky  and,  in  airy, 
shimmering  haze,  were  lost  to  the  eye. 

As  they  marched  up  through  the  pathless  woods 
each  step  brought  to  Motier's  eyes  a  new  and  a  more 
splendid  picture,  and  he  felt  glad  that  he  had  lived  to 
see   these   things;   but   each   time   the   rattle   of   the 

294 


Wallannah  Manita 

chinchone  reminded  him  that  the  life  in  which  he 
rejoiced  was  the  most  uncertain  thing  in  the  world. 
A  consumptive  can  look  forward  resignedly  to  the  day 
when  his  own  lungs  will  cease  their  working;  but  it 
takes  a  man  of  iron  nerve  to  stand  in  the  pride  of  his 
strength,  and  know  that  his  young  and  vigorous  life 
must  be  measured  by  the  length  of  that  of  another,  and 
that  other  a  man  whose  lung  has  been  perforated  by  a 
ridiculously  great  leaden  slug.  Yet  Motier's  courage 
never  faltered ;  for,  though  he  loved  life  as  few  men 
do,  he  feared  death  as  little  as  any. 

As  they  journeyed  on  they  climbed  higher  and 
higher  among  the  wooded  peaks  and  in  the  afternoon 
the  breeze  died  away,  leaving  behind  it  a  perfect  calm. 
The  air  v>-as  close  and  oppressive,  and  the  sun  shone 
like  a  disk  of  molten  copper  in  a  dull  grey  sky.  Motier's 
limbs  seemed  heavy  and  nerveless,  and  his  breathing 
grew  short  and  labored.  The  birds  stopped  their 
singing  in  the  forest  trees,  and  the  buzzard  and  the 
eagle  came  down  from  the  humid  upper  air  and 
soared  listlessly  over  the  low  valleys.  The  Cherokee 
warriors  looked  often  about  them,  and  ever  and 
anon  glanced  with  uneasy  eyes  at  the  sun  and  the  hazy 
sky. 

Marching  slowly  onward  the  party  reached  a  wide 
bare  ledge  projecting  many  feet  from  the  wall  of  rock 
that  mounted  a  sheer  hundred  feet  above  it.  Beneath 
this  shelf,  so  far  below  that  its  music  was  lost  before 
it  reached  the  ledge,  a  mountain  stream  dodged  hither 
and  thither  among  the  great  bowlders  of  the  chasm. 
The  tops  of  the  tall  pines  that  stood  within  this  gorge 
reached  but  a  third  of  the  way  to  the  ledge,  and  looked 

295 


Waliannah 

like  tiny  sprigs  of  evergreen  beside  a  winding  ribbon  of 
silver.  Across  the  canyon  loomed  the  cliff  which  had 
kissed  this  other  in  the  days  before  the  earth  had 
opened  and  split  them  apart;  and  far  ahead  the  two 
great  walls  drew  so  close  together  that  the  space 
between  them  seemed  but  a  narrow  slit  of  light  in  the 
black  rock.  Through  and  above  this  crevice,  and  a 
long  way  off,  rose  a  straight-walled  peak  of  dull 
brown-grey,  looming  up  like  a  giants'  cathedral,  but 
bare  of  spire  or  buttress  or  window.  Behind  this  rock 
stirred  a  ragged  bank  of  cloud,  frayed  and  torn  at  its 
edges. 

The  eyes  of  the  Indians  were  fixed  upon  that  cloud ; 
and,  watching  with  them,  Motier  saw  that  it  rose  with 
great  rapidity,  spreading  wider  as  it  came,  and  varying 
in  hue  as  it  grew  in  size,  until  a  great  segment  of  the 
heavens  was  obscured  by  a  surging  mass  of  dull 
brownish  green,  tattered  and  yellow-fringed  on  its 
eastward  border  and  seared  and  riven  by  dull  red 
lightnings  running  serpent-wiseupanddown  and  across 
its  angry  expanse.  Like  a  great  curtain  it  crept  across 
the  face  of  the  sun,  and  its  vast  shadow  stalked  over 
the  valleys  and  the  lowlands,  wiping  out  the  light  and 
the  color  and  the  warmth  like  a  brush  of  black  sweeping 
across  a  brightly-painted  landscape.  The  yellow  and 
the  olive  of  the  cloud  changed  to  a  sooty  black,  touched 
here  and  there  with  whirling  eddies  of  sickly  grey; 
and  the  lightnings  went  from  red  to  pink  and  from 
pink  to  orange  and  from  orange  to  white,  with  dazzling 
after-gleamings  of  purple  and  yellow  and  emerald 
green.  Then  came  the  whistling  wind,  howling  down 
^c  gorge  like  a  pack  of  hungry  wolves ;  and  after  that 

296 


Wallannah  Manita 

the  sullen  rumbling  of  the  thunder  as  it  rose  and  fell 
with  a  growling  that  seemed  the  voice  of  a  menacing 
Manitou.  The  storm  came  onward.  The  whole  vault 
above  them  darkened  with  the  rolling  clouds.  The 
landscape,  dull  and  lifeless,  took  upon  itself  the  gloom 
of  night.  A  vivid  flash  of  lightning  writhed  down  the 
face  of  the  opposite  cliff,  and  with  it  came  a  roar  like 
the  voice  of  a  thousand  cannon.  The  Indians  huddled 
together  with  upturned  faces  that  paled  beneath  their 
paint.  Another  jagged  flash  cleft  the  cloud  and,  with 
a  ripping  crash,  shot  with  a  great  twist  to  the  depths 
of  the  ravine.  Then,  when  the  lightnings  gleamed 
about  them,  and  the  great  stony  walls  quivered  with 
the  echo  of  the  thunder,  and  the  north  wind  shrieked 
down  the  night-dark  gap,  a  narrow  beam  of  sunlight 
pierced  through  the  gloom  and,  marked  like  a  long 
white  finger  against  the  hellish  blackness  of  the  clouds, 
fell  upon  the  cathedral  rock,  touching  it  with  an 
hundred  colors,  until  it  gleamed  like  an  agate  hanging 
before  a  broad  black  velvet  background. 

A  low  wail  came  from  the  Cherokee  warriors,  and, 
as  they  broke  into  a  crooning  chant,  Ocebee  strode  to 
the  edge  of  the  rocky  shelf  and,  raising  his  head, 
stretched  his  arms  toward  the  sun-kissed  peak. 
"Yaunocca!  Yaunocca!"  he  cried,  his  voice  ringing 
loud  above  the  noise  of  the  warring  elements. 
"Wallannah!  Manita!"  The  wind  picked  up  his  cry 
and  swept  it  down  the  valley  of  darkness.  But  Ocebee's 
arms  were  still  outstretched,  and  his  lips  moved  with 
words  that  Alotier  could  not  hear. 

The  peak  dropped  back  again  into  the  gloom ;  the 
finger  of  light  crept  through  the  crevice  at  the  canyon's 

297 


Wallannah 

upper  end,  and,  moving  across  the  shadowed  hollow, 
blazed  a  path  of  green  and  brown  across  the  forest  and 
the  rocks.  Then  it  shone  for  a  moment  on  the  rim 
of  the  ledge  on  the  cliff's  wall.  Ocebee's  lifted  arms 
and  bare  shoulders  gleamed  in  the  light,  his  war-lock 
with  its  blood-tipped  white  feathers  nodded  to  the  sun, 
and  he  stood  for  a  moment  the  only  dash  of  color  in 
the  black-domed  landscape,  his  form  painted  vividly 
against  a  background  as  dark  as  the  depths  of  an 
Inferno.  Then  the  light  went  out  like  a  candle  in  the 
wind;  a  lightning  flash  snaked  slant-wise  down  the 
gorge ;  and  with  a  sudden  uplifting  quiver  the  ledge 
trembled  beneath  their  feet.  Once,  twice,  thrice,  and  a 
last  and  terrible  fourth  time,  did  the  earth  reel  and  the 
cHffs  rock  to  the  base ;  but  through  it  all  came  the  wild 
song  of  Ocebee,  and  his  dark  figure  stood  motionless 
against  the  darker  sky.  Great  pieces  of  stone  crashed 
down  the  walls  of  the  canyon ;  and  one  huge  rock 
hurtled  down  from  the  cliff's  very  top  and  with  a  great 
leap  struck  upon  the  ledge  and  took  a  jagged  bite  from 
its  outer  rim,  then  whirled  to  the  depths  below.  The 
Indians,  save  that  one  who  stood  alone  on  the  chasm's 
brink,  fell  upon  their  faces  and  wept  and  groaned  with 
terror.  But  Ocebee,  like  a  gloomy  statue,  still  held  his 
arms  outstretched  and  sang  his  song  to  the  Wallannah, 
Manita  of  Yaunocca. 

The  storm  passed  over  them,  and  with  its  going 
came  the  courage  of  the  Cherokees.  The  clouds  swept 
on  toward  the  east,  and  the  sun  again  shone  over  the 
landscape.  The  party  moved  onward,  winding  its  way 
along  the  rock-ledged  side  of  the  cliff.  It  was  near 
the  close  of  day  when,  emerging  from  the  mouth  of  the 

298 


Wallannah  Manita 

deep-cut  gorge,  the  Indians  and  their  prisoner  entered 
an  open  glade  at  the  foot  of  the  great  cathedral  rock. 
The  warriors,  with  one  accord,  stopped  and  gazed  up 
to  the  dizzy  height  of  the  pinnacle.  Motier  raised  his 
eyes  with  theirs.  High  on  the  brow  of  the  beetling 
cliff,  strongly  marked  against  the  purpling  sky,  stood 
a  woman  clad  in  white,  her  long  black  hair  and  her 
loose  flowing  robes  waving  lightly  in  the  breeze.  As 
they  watched  her  she  turned  and  pointed  one  hand 
toward  the  west.  "Ouke  Yappa  me !"  came  the  sound 
of  her  voice,  floating  down  like  music.  As  the  tones 
died  away  a  low  rumble  came  from  the  clouds  that,  far 
away,  carried  the  storm  oceanward.  Then  the  woman 
was  gone,  whither  Motier  could  not  tell ;  for  it  seemed 
as  though  the  white-clad  figure  had  dissolved  into 
mist. 

The  little  band  of  men  walked  a  half-mile  'round 
the  base  of  the  precipice,  clambering  over  great 
fragments  of  rock  which  had  fallen,  perhaps  in  ages 
past,  perhaps  in  the  earthquake  of  the  last  hour,  from 
the  wall  beside  them.  Then,  sweeping  about  a  rocky 
pilaster,  they  came  into  an  open  space  that  stretched 
level  as  a  ball-room  floor  within  a  circling  bowl  of 
cliffs.  Near  the  northern  edge  of  this  level  sward  a 
great  pool  whirled  and  foamed  in  a  deep  rock-girt  basin 
as  broad  and  as  long  as  the  council  lodge  of  the 
Cherokees.  Into  this  poured  a  foaming  stream  as  wide 
as  a  city  street,  dashing  down  the  mountain  side  over  a 
dozen  rocky  terraces  and  filling  the  air  with  its  rushing 
music.  After  its  moment's  rest  in  the  pool,  the  stream, 
with  a  new-found  force,  swept  down  the  left  of  the 
tabled  green  and  roared  its  way  into  a  gloomy  gulf 

299 


Wallannah 

that  seemed  the  gaping  mouth  of  darkness.  Against 
the  diff  stood  a  vine-covered  log  cabin,  its  timbers 
ghstening  mossy  green  between  the  openings  in  the 
ivy  and  the  woodbine.  Between  this  hut  and  the 
rock-ribbed  pool  nestled  a  little  spring,  whose 
sulphured  borders  mingled  with  the  emerald  of  the 
overhanging  grass,  and  whose  waters  trickled  down  to 
the  seething  basin  of  the  torrent. 

The  bearers  laid  the  litter  with  its  wounded  occupant 
close  by  the  spring ;  then,  with  Motier  as  a  centre,  the 
Indians  formed  a  semi-circle,  all  facing  the  hut.  In 
a  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  white-clad  woman 
stood  before  them.  Motier  saw  that  she  was 
Wallannah,  and  he  did  not  wonder  at  her  influence 
over  the  savage  mind ;  for  she  had  come  from  the  top 
of  the  cliff,  and  it  seemed  to  Du  Val  that  nothing  but 
a  spirit  could  make  that  descent  and  live.  Yet  she  was 
there. 

Wallannah,  seemiing  not  to  notice  the  dark  row  of 
warriors,  gazed  long  and  fixedly  at  Motier.  He  saw 
that  her  features  were  those  of  the  painted  miniature; 
but  he  missed  something  in  the  look  of  the  woman's 
eyes  which  the  artist  had  placed  in  his  portrayal.  The 
expression,  though  none  the  less  noble,  lacked  the 
womianly  tenderness  of  the  face  upon  the  ivory.  The 
look  was  cold,  and  without  a  trace  of  sympathy.  But 
as  Motier  watched  her,  and  as  she  watched  him,  the 
face  changed ;  her  eyes  grew  softer,  and  she  bent 
forward  with  an  eager  interest.  Then,  raising  one 
hand  with  a  gesture  of  authority,  she  spoke  quickly 
two  Indian  words.  Motier  felt  the  cold  touch  of  steel 
upon  his  wrists,  and  his  hands  were  freed. 

300 


Wallannah  Manita 

Then  the  Manita  spoke,  in  stately  old-time  English. 
"What  hast  thou  to  say  for  thyself?" 

Motier  moved  a  step  nearer.  "I  am  a  traveler  in 
the  mountains,  seeking  one  who  is  a  friend.  I  was  led 
into  an  ambush  and  captured  by  a  band  of  Indians, 
among  whom  were  the  warriors  who  bring  me 
here." 

"I  know,"  she  said,  coldly.  "I  learned  that  from 
the  spirits  that  inhabit  Yaunocca;  but  how  couldst 
thou,  who  hast  passed  unharmed  through  fire  and 
water,  guard  thyself  so  little  as  to  fall  into  the  hands 
ofOcebee?" 

"I  had  no  knowledge  of  danger,"  replied  IMotier, 
wondering  at  her  allusion  to  the  "fire  and  water." 
"How  could  I  guard  against  that  of  which  I  knew 
nothing?" 

"Thou  art  but  half  right,"  was  the  answer;  "but 
speak  on.  Thy  voice  is  music  in  mine  ears :  I  have 
heard  it  in  my  dreams.  Wherefore  camest  thou  over 
the  great  water?" 

Motier  started,  and  something  like  awe  came  over 
him.  The  woman  seemed  to  know  more  of  his  life  than 
did  he  himself. 

"Speak!"  she  commanded, 

Motier  forced  a  smile.  "I  came  to  visit  my  father's 
friends,"  he  said. 

"And  thy  name?" 

"Motier  Du  Val." 

"I  know  it  not.    Art  sure  thou  speakest  truly  ?" 

Motier  raised  his  head  a  little  stiffly.  "I  have  told 
you  my  name,"  he  answered,  with  a  quick  flash  in  his 
eyes. 

301 


Wallannah 

She  smiled:  "Nay,  I  cannot  doubt  thee;  but  the 
name  fitteth  not  thy  tongue.    Thou  hadst  a  message?" 

"I  had  a  letter:  it  was  taken  from  me  by  my 
captors." 

"Nay,  not  that,"  she  said,  eagerly.  ''Thou  hadst  a 
message  from  him  who  went  to  the  spirit  land:  hast 
thou  tidings  of  him  ?" 

Motier  was  perplexed.  "No,"  he  answered,  shaking 
his  head,  "I  know  none  such  as  vou  indicate." 

The  cold  gleam  returned  to  her  eyes.  "Thou  canst 
keep  nothing  from  me,"  she  said,  shortly.  "There  is 
blood  on  thy  hands :  look  thou  to  it."  Then,  turning 
from  him,  she  approached  Ocebee. 

The  Cherokee  met  her  gaze  with  something  like  fear 
in  his  eyes. 

She  spoke  in  the  warrior's  own  language.  "Why 
seek  ye  Wallannah?"  she  asked,  coldly. 

"W'e  come  for  judgment,  O  ISIanita,"  was  the 
Indian's  reply. 

"Against  this  youth  ?  Hast  thou  not  already  judged 
him?    Let  Ocebee  speak." 

"Know  then,  O  Wallannah,"  responded  the  warrior, 
in  the  same  musical  tones  that  had  thrilled  the  council 
lodge.  "The  Great  Wolf  came  with  the  thunder  of  his 
roaring  to  devour  the  friends  of  the  red  man.  While 
the  Good  Spirit  slept  the  Wolf  feasted  on  our  white 
brothers  and  left  their  bones  to  bleach  by  the  sands  of 
the  Alamance.  The  Wottame-Possa,  our  Big-Hat 
brother,  a  mighty  chief  of  our  pale-face  friends,  met 
us  and  turned  us  back  to  our  lodges.  He  went  to  the 
mountains,  but  wolf-dogs  were  on  the  marks  of  his 
footsteps.    W^ottame-Possa  bade  us  drive  them  to  the 

302 


Wallannah  Manila 

plains  or  take  them  to  our  wigwams,  but  not  to  shed 
their  blood ;  that  we  might  hold  them  between  us  and 
our  enemies,  and  our  voices  be  bold  when  we  talked 
at  our  council  fires.  This  pale- face  youth  was  with 
them.  We  sprang  upon  them  like  the  panthers  of  the 
forest;  and  we  seized  them  all.  But  Usquaughne 
returned  not  with  us  rejoicing.  We  bore  him  bleeding 
to  his  women  and  his  children.  The  pale-face  youth 
we  would  have  spared ;  but  on  his  hands  is  the  blood 
of  Usquaughne;  and  the  blood  of  the  great  and  wise 
Usquaughne  cries  for  vengeance." 

"Blood  for  blood:  thus  reads  the  law,"  said  the 
prophetess,  regarding  Ocebee  with  eyes  that  seemed  to 
look  beyond  him. 

"The  Great  Spirit  speaks  in  the  words  of 
Wallannah,"  responded  the  savage;  and  a  chorus  of 
approval  came  from  the  dark  group  about  him.  "We 
will  take  the  pale-face  again  to  our  lodge." 

Wallannah  shook  her  head.  "Not  while 
Usquaughne  still  Hveth,"  she  answered.  "He  hath 
done  dark  deeds ;  he  hadst  killed  the  pale-face,  but  the 
pale-face  wast  quicker  than  Usquaughne.  But  when 
the  warrior  dieth,  remember  then  thy  law :  Blood  for 
blood." 

"Does  Usquaughne  die?  Cannot  Wallannah  heal 
him?" 

"Usquaughne  dieth  even  now:  the  chinchone 
soundeth  low." 

"Give  to  us  Usquaughne,  and  the  pale-face  may  go. 
Usquaughne  is  a  warrior,  and  the  wolf-dog  will  never 
darken  our  lodges  again.  Cannot  Wallannah  call  upon 
the  Great  Spirit  to  heal  Usquaughne  ?" 

303 


Wallannah 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  toward  the  spring. 
"Usquaughne  is  dead,"  she  said,  wearily.  "The 
chinchone  soundeth  no  more." 

Confirming  her  words,  the  rattle  stopped  its  noise 
and  the  medicine-man  broke  into  a  low  wailing  chant. 

Ocebee  sprang  toward  Motier.  "Give  us  now  the 
youth,"  he  cried  fiercely.  "Give  us  the  pale-face :  we 
must  appease  the  spirit  of  Usquaughne." 

"Life  for  life !  Thou  knowest  the  law.  But  why  so 
quick?  Hast  thou  no  pity  for  that  young  man? 
Wouldst  thou  destroy  him  in  the  promise  of  his  youth 
and  strength?" 

"The  arm  of  Usquaughne  can  no  more  bend  the 
bow  against  the  enemies  of  his  people :  his  swift  feet 
can  no  longer  race  with  the  deer  that  his  lodge  be  filled 
with  meat." 

Wallannah  the  judge  had  turned  into  Wallannah 
the  woman.  "Wouldst  thou  darken  the  light  of  those 
eyes  ?  I  see  no  hatred  in  them :  the  look  is  proud  and 
fearless." 

"The  eyes  of  Usquaughne  were  as  bright.  They 
were  like  the  eagle's  searching  for  his  prey :  their  look 
too  was  proud  and  fearless;  but  the  pale-face  made 
them  close  in  death." 

"Wouldst  thou,  Ocebee,  stop  the  life  of  that  strong 
heart?" 

"The  blood  of  our  warrior  was  as  red,  and  his  heart 
was  as  strong  and  as  happy." 

"He  is  a  comely  youth,"  she  said,  turning  her  eyes 
toward  the  captive.  Then  in  Motier's  own  tongue, 
"Can  it  be  that  one  whom  fire  and  water  hath  spared 
must  die  by  a  death  of  torture !" 

304 


Wallannah  Manita 

Du  Val  gave  no  sign,  nor  moved  a  muscle  of  his 
face. 

Ocebee  fingered  his  tomahawk  with  impatience. 
"Does  Wallannah  forget  Ocebee  and  his  warriors?"  he 
asked.  "The  law  is  spoken:  give  us  our  captive,  that 
we  may  bury  our  dead."    He  moved  toward  Du  Val. 

Wallannah  stayed  him  with  a  move  of  her  hand. 
"Touch  him  at  thy  peril !"  she  cried.  "Back  to  thy 
place.  I  have  spoken  the  law ;  but  thy  law  is  not  his. 
Let  the  Great  Spirit  speak." 

"The  Great  Spirit  of  the  Indian,  or  the  Great  Spirit 
of  the  pale- face  ?"  asked  Ocebee,  with  a  little  sneer. 

"They  are  one!"  was  the  answer,  "Rememberest 
not  that  He  made  the  earth  to  tremble  when  thou 
earnest  on  the  way  to  me  ?    I  must  seek  His  will." 

Ocebee  dropped  back  into  his  place  among  the 
warriors,  and  folding  his  arms  across  his  painted  chest, 
waited  for  Wallannah  to  do  as  she  had  said. 

"The  fire!"  called  the  Manita.  "Kindle  thou  the 
fire!" 

A  dwarfed  negress,  seeming  to  rise  from  the 
ground,  bent  over  a  rocky  altar  by  the  cabin's  end,  and 
lighted  the  pile  of  wood  that  lay  upon  it.  As  the  flames 
crept  up  and  licked  about  the  dried  faggots,  Wallannah, 
now  a  priestess  in  the  eyes  of  the  savages,  began 
dropping  handfuls  of  herbs  and  gums  and  spices  into 
the  flames.  The  smoke  rolled  upward,  dark  and 
heavily  scented,  and  as  it  rose  the  woman  watched  its 
writhings  as  though  she  read  in  those  fantastic  shapes 
an  answer  to  the  invocation  which  she  murmured.  Her 
voice  was  at  first  low ;  but  as  her  excitement  increased, 
her  dark  eyes  kindled,   her   face   flushed,   and   with 

305 


Wallannah 

slow,  sweeping  gestures  she  broke  into  a  loud, 
wild  chant. 

As  Wallannah's  voice  echoed  and  re-echoed  about 
the  rocky  ampitheatre,  another  storm  began  to  rise; 
and  one  great  cloud  from  the  southwest  drew  toward 
another  that  came  up  out  of  the  west.  The  chant  rose 
higher  as  the  lightning  brightened  and  the  thunder 
deepened.  Then,  when  the  heavens  were  aglow  and 
the  air  shook  with  the  roar  of  the  storm,  Wallannah 
stopped  her  singing. 

There  was  one  dark,  silent  moment  when  the  clouds 
met  overhead.  Then,  slowly  but  certainly,  the 
medicine-man's  chinchone  again  took  up  its  rattling. 
The  light  of  Usquaughne's  life  was  returning. 
Surprise  was  marked  on  every  face  save  only 
Wallannah's. 

The  Manita  raised  her  hands  to  the  heavens,  and 
gave  one  quick,  loud  call.  The  clouds  were  riven  by 
a  flash  that  blinded  with  its  glare.  A  roaring,  splitting 
crash  shook  the  air  and  the  rocks,  and  a  shower  of 
splinters  fell  from  the  oak  tree  by  the  spring. 
Usquaughne,  seared  and  marked  beyond  all  human 
semblance,  was  dashed  from  his  litter  and  fell  upon  the 
ground  many  feet  away. 

Ocebee  and  his  brother,  followed  by  the  other 
warriors,  rushed  to  the  dead  man's  side.  With  a  quick 
glance  Motier  saw  his  way  clear  to  the  forest.  He 
turned  and  made  a  step  toward  the  woods.  Freedom 
seemed  within  his  reach.  But  a  light  step  sounded 
behind  him ;  a  pair  of  strong  arms  were  bound  about 
him ;  and  with  a  sudden  resistless  jerk  he  was  thrown 
backward  into  a  darkness  deeper  than  the  night. 

306 


A  Pair  of  Dead  Indians 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  Pair  of  Dead  Indians 

U  VAL'S  first  thought  was  to  spring  at  his 
captor's  throat  and  fight  for  his  liberty.  A 
week  before  he  would  have  acted  on  the 
impulse ;  but  now  —  well,  now  he  knew 
something  of  tomahawks  and  war-clubs,  and  the 
knowledge  calmed  him  to  discretion.  Yielding  to 
the  force  that  pushed  him  onward  through  the 
darkness,  he  heard  the  soft  closing  of  a  door  behind 
him,  and  felt  a  carpet  beneath  his  feet.  Then  came  the 
creaking  of  hinges  and  the  closing  of  a  second  door, 
after  which  he  stood  beside  his  captor  on  a  floor  of 
stone,  and  felt  the  breath  of  cool  fresh  air  in  his  face. 

After  the  closing  of  the  last  door,  the  man  who  had 
held  Motier's  arms  loosened  his  hold ;  and  Du  Val 
heard  him  make  a  short  step  away.  Then  both  stood 
still.  "Wait  a  moment,"  said  a  voice  at  his  elbow,  "I 
must  see  that  she  is  safe." 

Motier  gave  a  great  start.    "Captain  May  — " 

"H'sh!    Not  a  word!" 

For  a  full  minute  they  kept  their  silence,  hearing 
nothing  but  the  drip,  drip,  drip,  of  water  round  about 
them,  and  the  subdued  rushing  of  the  cascade  outside. 
Then  came  a  confused  sound  of  wailing,  broken 
suddenly  by  a  fierce  yell.  And  Motier  knew  that  some 
one  had  missed  him. 

307 


Wallannah 

One  voice  rose  above  the  others.  The  orator  of  the 
council  lodge  was  speaking. 

Then  followed  the  answer,  in  Wallannah's  clear 
voice.  "What  spirit  hath  seized  upon  Ocebee?"  she 
demanded,  speaking  the  Cherokee  dialect. 

Ocebee's  reply  was  loud  and  fierce.  "Wallannah 
promised  blood  for  blood:   where  is  the  pale- face?" 

"The  Great  Spirit  hath  taken  him." 

"Not  the  Great  Spirit  of  the  Cherokees !" 

"Hath  Ocebee  forgotten  his  wisdom?  Go  thou, 
and  see  whose  shaft  hath  stricken  Usquaughne." 

The  savage  gave  no  response. 

"The  Great  Spirit  of  the  pale-face  is  the  Great 
Spirit  of  all  the  earth,"  \\^allannah  continued.  "He  did 
thunder  out  of  heaven,  with  hailstones  and  coals  of 
fire,  and  He  sendeth  out  His  arrows  to  scatter  them 
that  fear  Him  not.  He  casteth  forth  lightnings  and 
destroyeth  them.    Doth  Ocebee  hearken?" 

"The  ears  of  Ocebee  are  open."  The  voice  had  l®st 
some  of  its  sneering  bravado. 

"Then  hear  thou,  Ocebee !  Because  thou  hast  dared 
lift  thy  hand  against  the  judgment  of  the  Highest,  that 
hand  shall  fail  thee  in  thy  greatest  need.  Because  thou 
hast  looked  without  fear  upon  the  signs  of  His  anger, 
the  fire  of  thine  eyes  shall  be  turned  to  darkness. 
Because  thou  hast  spoken  foolishly  of  His  justice,  thy 
tongue  shall  be  stiffened  in  thy  mouth.  No  more  shalt 
thou  hurl  the  weapon  against  thy  foes ;  no  more  shall 
thine  eye  guide  the  arrow  to  its  mark;  no  more  shall 
thy  voice  be  heard  in  the  councils  of  thy  people.  The 
clouds  that  spake  with  the  thunder  shall  pass  away  in 
the  night  and  the  sun  will  rise  on  the  morrow,  but  it 

308 


"  A  Pair  of  Dead  Indians 

will  not  rise  for  Ocebee  nor  for  one  other.  Thou  shalt 
have  no  grave  among  thy  people ;  for  the  earth 
shall  swallow  thee  up ;  and  thy  face  shall  no  more 
be  seen  among  thy  warriors.  So  the  Spirit  telleth 
Wallannah !" 

A  deep  silence  followed. 

Alotier  felt  the  grasp  of  a  hand  on  his  arm. 
"All  is  well,"  whispered  Maynard.  "Walk  where  I 
lead." 

For  some  moments  they  went  m  silence. 

"Now,  lower  your  head,"  said  Alaynard,  after  they 
had  walked  several  rods.  "Bend  down  until  you  see 
the  light.  There,  this  is  the  ante-chamber."  They  were 
in  a  spacious  cavern  lighted  by  the  flickering  flame  of  a 
lard-lamp  hanging  from  the  rocky  wall. 

Motier  grasped  his  companion's  hand.  "This  is  the 
second  time  you  have  helped  me  in  my  need,"  he  said. 
"I  cannot  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am." 

"Do  not  try,"  laughed  Maynard,  pressing  the 
other's  hand.  "Come,  we  cannot  stay  here."  And  he 
led  the  way  down  a  stone  stairway  into  a  well  lighted 
and  neatly  furnished  room.  "Sit  down,"  he  said,  "and 
tell  me  how  you  came  into  such  bad  company." 

They  seated  themselves  on  a  long  bench,  and 
Alotier,  after  some  further  expression  of  his 
indebtedness  to  Maynard,  told  the  story  of  his  capture 
and  of  the  march  to  Yaunocca.  "The  rest  you  know," 
he  concluded. 

"Yes ;  I  know  all  about  the  rest." 

"Well,  I  do  not,"  was  Motier's  laughing  response. 
'I'm  perplexed  and  somewhat  awe-struck.  I  have 
heard  much  that  I  cannot  understand,  and  have  seen  a 

309 


Wallannah  * 

great  deal  that  is  hard  to  believe.  Who  and  what  is 
this  wonderful  Wallannah?" 

Maynard  turned  quickly.  "You  have  not  guessed?" 
he  asked,  with  some  surprise. 

Motier  shook  his  head. 

Maynard  rose  and  paced  two  or  three  times  before 
the  bench.  "This  Wallannah,"  he  said,  at  last,  stopping 
before  Motier,  "is  my  wife.  You  know  some  of  her 
story?" 

"Yes ;  and  a  terrible  one  it  is.  But  I  thought  Mrs. 
Maynard  dead." 

"No.  We  have  lived  here  for  ten  years.  You  and 
Boggs  are  the  only  ones  outside  our  own  little  circle 
who  know  that  she  is  among  the  living." 

"And  her  health  has  improved  ?" 

"Yes,  day  by  day.  Boggs  comes  up  here 
occasionally,  and  I  go  frequently  to  see  him.  We 
think  that  she  may  recover  entirely  within  a  few  years. 
But,  to  change  the  subject,  you  said  that  you  knew 
nothing  of  your  father's  message  ?" 

"Not  a  word.  The  letter  was  sealed,  and  I  asked 
no  questions.  I  Avas  curious  to  know ;  for  I  had  heard 
of  no  intimacy  between  you  and  my  father;  but, 
obeying  orders,  I  came  as  I  was  bidden." 

A  slight  cloud  rested  on  Maynard's  features.  "I 
knew  your  father  years  ago,"  he  said,  thoughtfully, 
"And  I  loved  him  as  a  brother;  but  something,  or 
somebody,  came  between  us.  The  time  is  not  distant, 
I  hope,  when  all  will  be  well  again." 

"It  will,  if  my  efforts  can  avail.  Father  is  a  man 
of  violent  feeling,  and  is  arbitrary  to  a  remarkable 
degree ;  but  he  seldom  nurses  a  difference." 

310 


A  Pair  of  Dead  Indians 

"Our  meeting  again  lies  in  the  future.  When  the 
time  comes  I  know  that  your  father  and  I  will  be  as  we 
v»ere  in  the  old  days." 

A  shuffling  step  sounded  in  the  stone  stairway.  The 
men  turned. 

The  dwarfed  negress  stood  in  the  archway.  "I 
done  come  fer  a  light,  Mars  Willum,"  she  said.  "Missis 
is  a-comin'."  She  took  one  of  the  lard-lamps  and 
climbed  back  to  the  upper  room.  Both  men  looked 
after  her.  In  a  few  moments  she  returned,  and  with 
her  was  Wallannah. 

The  stately  woman  crossed  the  room  and  stretched 
out  her  arms  toward  her  husband.  "William,  my 
king,"  she  murmured,  softly.    "Thou  art  here  ?" 

Maynard  stepped  toward  her.  "Here,  my  queen," 
he  said,  taking  her  hands,  and  smiling  into  her  great 
eyes. 

"Let  me  look  at  thee,"  she  said,  bending  slightly 
forward.  Then,  slowly  but  with  a  ring  of  gladness  in 
her  voice,  "Thine  eyes  show  that  'thy  soul  is  clear,  all 
clear.  Thou  art  ready  should  He  call  thee.  Yet  a  cloud 
hangeth  about  thee,  my  king !  I  cannot  pierce  it ;  but 
there  is  a  light  beyond.  If  He  take  thee,  dear  one, 
come  back  here  for  thy  Margaret.  The  spirits  have 
spoken  to  Wallannah:  danger  besets  the  life  of  a 
Maynard;  and  there  is  no  Maynard  here  but  thee. 
Watch  thou,  and  pray."  She  moved  away,  with  bowed 
head. 

While  the  two  talked  together,  Motier  turned,  and 
approaching  a  rack  of  arms  upon  the  wall,  took  down 
a  long,  thin  rapier  of  the  French  pattern.  Glancing  at 
the  name  graven  on  the  hilt  he  started  a  little.     He 

3" 


Wallannah 

turned  to  Captain  Maynard  as  Wallannah  went  toward 
the  door  and  opened  his  lips  to  speak. 

They  were  startled  by  a  sudden  cry  from 
Wallannah.  "Look !  Quick  !"  she  screamed,  pointing 
toward  the  end  of  the  room. 

Maynard  jerked  Motier  to  one  side.  A  tomahawk 
cleft  the  air  and  crashed  against  the  wall  behind  them. 
Motier  looked  up  quickly.  Ocebee  and  his  brother  were 
dashing  toward  them.  Maynard  met  the  younger  man 
half  way  across  the  room,  and  the  two  grappled  and 
fell  to  the  floor. 

Ocebee,  with  a  terrific  whoop,  rushed  upon  Motier 
with  a  gleaming  hunting  knife.  Quick  as  a  flash 
Motier's  arm  and  the  keen  rapier  shot  forward.  There 
was  a  Httle  shivering  ring  as  the  long  blade  rasped 
across  the  edge  of  the  Indian's  knife,  then  Ocebee  sank 
to  the  floor  with  the  sword  through  his  heart.  Motier 
hastened  to  the  writhing  pair  upon  the  floor.  They 
twisted  and  turned,  first  with  the  one  on  top,  then  with 
the  other ;  but  Motier  could  find  no  place  to  strike  with 
his  blade,  for  a  thrust  that  would  kill  one  would  kill 
both. 

After  the  struggle  had  continued  several  minutes 
the  captain  slowly  arose,  first  on  one  knee  and  then  to 
his  feet,  raising  the  savage  with  him.  They  stood  for 
a  moment  breast  to  breast,  their  arms  outstretched  in 
cruciform  and  the  captain's  fingers  gripped  about  the 
red-skin's  wrists.  In  the  Indian's  right  hand  was  a 
short  sharp  knife ;  but  Maynard  was  unarmed. 

Motier  would  have  thrust  the  savage  through  where 
he  stood;  but  the  captain  bade  him  leave  the  man  to 
him.    With  a  quick  move  Maynard  forced  the  savage's 

312 


A  Pair  of  Dead  Indians 

hands  together  above  his  head.  Ocebee's  brother 
grinned  ferociously,  and  Motier  raised  the  point  of  his 
sword ;  for  it  seemed  as  though  a  very  child  could  have 
dropped  his  hands  and  struck  that  knife  into  Maynard's 
breast.  The  Indian  tried  it;  but  while  his  bare  arms 
quivered  with  the  tension  of  their  muscles,  Maynard 
slowly  drew  their  hands  more  closely  together,  bearing 
them  down  toward  his  own  left  shoulder.  Motier  drew 
a  quick  breath,  for  the  knife's  point  missed  the  captain's 
throat  by  less  than  an  inch.  Ocebee's  brother,  however, 
failed  in  compassing  that  inch.  With  a  sudden  move 
Maynard  grasped  both  the  Indian's  wrists  in  his  left 
hand,  forced  him  suddenly  backward,  and  snatching 
the  Cherokee's  tomahawk  from  his  belt  cleft  his  skull 
with  a  single  blow. 

When  it  was  over,  Maynard  turned  to  Du  Val. 
"It  was  the  only  way,"  he  said,  with  a  quiet  smile. 
"We  can  keep  no  prisoners  here,  and  had  he 
escaped  we  should  have  paid  for  it  with  our  four 
lives.  But  zounds,  man!  You  gave  Ocebee  a  pretty 
thrust  I" 

Motier,  with  a  sudden  thought,  looked  across  the 
room :  Wallannah  and  the  negress  were  gone.  He 
made  a  move  toward  the  archway,  but  Maynard  held 
him  back.  "Thev  have  gone  to  secure  the  door,"  he 
said. 

"But  there  is  danger,"  protested  Motier. 

Maynard  smiled.  "There  were  but  two  of  this 
stamp,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  bodies  on  the  floor. 
"The  others  dare  not  follow." 

Suddenly  a  burst  of  song  came  sweeping  through 
the  cavern. 

313 


Wallannah 

"Says  Fanning  to  Frohawk,  'Tis  folly  to  lie, 
I  rode  an  old  mare  that  was  blind  of  one  eye; 
Five  shillings  in  money  I  had  in  my  purse, 
My  coat  it  was  patched,  but  not  much  the  worse; 
But  now  we've  got  rich,  and  it's  very  well  known, 
That  we'll  do  very  well;   if  they'll  let  us  alone." 

Motier  looked  at  Maynard  with  questioning  eyes. 

The  captain  laughed.  "A  few  of  my  friends,  in 
the  Grand  Hall,"  he  said;  "but  I  must  stop  them. 
Poor  fellows,  the  music  of  the  dying  swan !  A  few 
songs  and  the  memory  of  their  dead  is  all  that  is  left 
to  the  Regulators."  And  he  hastened  through  one 
of  the  five  passages  that  led  from  the  parlor. 

Returning  a  little  later,  Maynard  brought  Husbands 
and  Howell  with  him.  They  advanced  and  shook 
hands  v/ith  Du  Val. 

Husbands  crossed  to  where  Ocebee  lay  with  his 
handsome  savage  face  upturned  to  the  light.  "The 
pitcher  went  too  often  to  the  well,"  he  said,  with  a 
sigh;  "and  a  well-aimed  stroke  it  was  that  broke  it. 
Ocebee  was  the  boldest  of  his  tribe,  seeking  danger  as 
a  lover  seeks  his  love.  Life  seemed  his  plaything.  He 
was  a  bad  man,  false  alike  to  friend  and  to  foe ;  but  he 
has  sown  the  wind  and  reaped  the  whirlwind.  'As  he 
has  made  his  bed,  so  let  him  lie.'  " 

"Your  last  proverb  doesn't  fit,"  remarked  Maynard. 
"1  can't  keep  these  fellows  on  my  parlor  floor.  What 
shall  we  do  with  them  ?" 

Husbands  looked  up  and  smiled.  "We'll  try 
another  proverb,"  he  said.  "  'He  that  falls  in  an  evil 
cause,  falls  into  the  devil's  frying-pan.'  Apply  that 
literally." 

314 


A  Pair  of  Dead  Indians 

"And  drop  him  into  the  crater,  eh?  You  see,"  he 
added,  turning  to  Motier,  "this  mountain  is  an  extinct 
volcano.  The  crater,  at  the  end  of  that  long  passage, 
is  roofed  now  by  thousands  of  tons  of  rock,  but  it  goes 
downward  to  the  bottom  of  everything."' 

Husbands,  hurrying  to  the  Grand  Hall,  returned 
with  two  men,  each  bearing  a  flaming  torch  of 
light-wood.  Then  he  and  Howell  lifted  the  body 
of  the  younger  warrior  and  carried  it  through  the 
passage-way  to  the  crater.  Maynard  and  Motier  took 
Ocebee,  and  led  by  their  torch-bearer,  entered  the 
gloomy  tunnel. 

Winding  through  a  long  passage  they  finally 
entered  a  great  vault  into  which  centred  many 
converging  caverns.  Before  them,  on  a  point  of  rock 
that  extended  out  into  blackness  that  seemed  boundless, 
stood  Husbands  and  Howell  with  their  torch-bearer. 
Their  figures  stood  out  in  bright  relief  against  the 
gloom,  and  the  torch  blazed  with  vain  fury  at  the 
darkness  which  its  beams  could  not  dispel. 

'Gone?"  asked  jMaynard,  as  he  saw  that  the 
Indian's  body  was  not  on  the  rock. 

"Miles  below  —  and  still  going,"  was  Howell's 
response. 

"Is  it  deep?"  asked  Motier,  after  he  and  Maynard 
had  laid  Ocebee  on  the  floor. 

"Is  it  deep?"  repeated  Howell,  with  a  laugh.  "Hell 
can  be  no  deeper." 

"Well,"  said  Husbands,  looking  down  at  Ocebee's 
painted  face,  "this  Cherokee  was  my  friend,  if  he  was 
the  friend  of  any  one.  As  a  brother  we  mourn  him; 
as  an  enemy  he  has  our  forgiveness.     Your  grave  is 

315 


Wallannah 

deep,  Ocebee;  but  not  so  deep  that  the  Great  Spirit 
cannot  find  you.  He,  not  we,  must  judge  you. 
Divinney,  tie  your  torch  in  the  Indian's  hand.  Now, 
boys,  up  with  him !" 

The  warrior's  length  stretched  between  Howell  and 
the  one  whom  Husbands  had  called  Divinney,  and  the 
flaming  torch  svv^ung  from  the  stiffening  hand. 

"Dust  to  dust,"  said  Husbands,  solemnly.  "Ocebee ! 
our  last  farewell !" 

There  was  a  quick  forward  movement  of  two  pairs 
of  arms,  and  from  the  pit  came  one  fleeting  glimpse 
of  a  handsome  painted  face  shooting  downward.  Then 
amid  the  silence  of  a  tomb  the  six  men  leaned  over 
the  abyss  and  watched.  The  flame  grew  smaller  and 
smaller,  and  smaller  still,  until  it  seemed  like  a  spark 
floating  in  infinite  depths  below.  Then  the  light  went 
out,  like  a  fire-fly  grown  weary  in  the  night. 

Husbands'  deep  voice  broke  upon  the  silence.  "May 
God  have  mercy  on  his  soul,"  he  said.  And  the  men 
about  him  murmured  something  like  a  quivering 
Amen. 

Motier  remembered  Ocebee  as  he  had  stood  but  a 
few  hours  before  on  the  ledge  above  the  gorge,  with 
his  blood-tipped  plumes  nodding  to  heaven  through  the 
raging  storm;  and,  bitter  though  their  enmity  had 
been,  a  quick  moisture  came  to  his  eyes  at  the  thought. 

The  next  morning  Maynard  came  to  the  couch 
where  Motier  had  slept.  He  bore  a  lamp  in  his  hand, 
for  in  the  cavern  day  and  night  were  both  alike. 
Leaving  the  lamp  he  returned  a  half  hour  later  and  led 
Motier  to  the  dining-room. 

"We    have    a    splendid    house,"    said    Maynard. 

316 


A  Pair  of  Dead  Indians 

"When  we  outgrow  our  apartments  we  have  simply 
to  hang  a  lamp  in  another  of  the  hundred  caverns  and 
thus  add  another  room  to  our  abode.  By  the  by,  your 
Indian  friends  left  at  sunrise,  carrying  Usquaughne 
with  them." 

"But  won't  the  whole  howling  tribe  come  back  to 
find  the  two  missing  ones." 

"Come  back !  Not  for  all  the  gold  and  all  the  rum 
in  Christendom.  They  remember  what  came  of 
Wallannah's  prophecy  that  Ocebee  and  one  other 
should  be  swallowed  up  by  the  earth,  and  I  doubt  if  a 
Cherokee  ever  comes  near  Yaunocca  again." 

After  breakfast  the  two  men,  leaving  Wallannah 
and  her  faithful  servant  in  the  cavern,  passed  out  into 
the  ampitheatre  where  the  priestess  had  stood  in 
judgment  in  the  twilight  of  the  day  before. 

Motier  looked  across  the  broad  and  level  green. 
"What  a  place  for  a  fight!"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
space  between  the  spring  and  the  basin. 

"I  have  often  thought  it,"  answered  Maynard,  a 
fire  kindling  in  his  dark  eyes.  Then  he  pulled  at  his 
mustache.  "A  good  spot  for  you  to  pull  off  that 
Cantwell  matter,  eh?" 

Motier  laughed.  "Bah!  Captain.  You  and  I  are 
too  bloodthirsty.    We  finished  two  yesterday." 

"A  case  of  had-to,  my  boy.  Ocebee  seemed  hungry 
for  that  scalp  of  yours;  and,  had  you  been  a  second 
later,  his  knife  would  have  forestalled  your  sword." 

"Speaking  of  the  sword,  Captain;  how  did  you 
get  it?" 

"It  belonged  to  my  half-brother,  a  soldier  of 
fortune,  but  a  nobleman  by  blood  and  by  heart." 

317 


Wallannah 

"I  know  that  he  was,"  was  Du  Val's  quiet  response. 
"The  truest  man  that  ever  Hved." 

A  quick  hght  came  to  Maynard's  eyes.  "But  you 
did  not  know  him?" 

"Yes ;   I  knew  him  —  and  loved  him." 

"And  yet  you  — " 

"Loved  the  woman  ?    Yes  —  until  I  knew." 

Maynard  drew  in  a  quick  breath,  "Thank  God  that 
you  found  it  out !"  he  said,  looking  thoughtfully  down 
to  the  cleft  in  the  gorge.    "I  knew  not  how  to  tell  you." 

"It  is  well  that  you  did  not,"  observed  Motier,  with 
a  touch  of  sadness  in  his  smile.  "In  the  days  before 
the  night  we  parted  a  word  against  her  would  have 
meant  some  serious  trouble." 

"I  knew  it,  I  felt  that  it  would ;  but  I  would  have 
faced  the  trouble.  And  you,  then,  are  the  Frenchman 
of  whom  he  often  spoke  ?" 

"Perhaps.  I  spent  a  year  with  him  in  England. 
But  I  never  knew  until  now  that  he  was  your 
half-brother." 

"Yes ;  he  was.  His  death  was  a  great  blow  to  me. 
Well,  come  and  take  a  jaunt  about  the  gully  below  us. 
Got  m.y  old  pistol  ?  Good  :  it's  always  well  to  carry  an 
armory  with  you  in  this  land." 

They  spent  the  morning  roaming  about  the 
ravines  below  the  cliff,  and  talking  as  they  walked. 
Approaching  Maynard's  home  when  the  sun  was  high, 
the  captain  halted  before  a  ragged  pile  of  rocks, 
covered  with  moss  and  sticks  and  dead  leaves. 

Maynard  looked  at  Motier  and  smiled.  "Walk  in," 
he  said,  waving  his  hand  toward  the  mass  of  debris. 

Du  Val  laughed.    "First  crush  in  the  mountain  for 

318 


A  Pair  of  Dead  Indians 

me,"  he  said,  looking  carelessly  at  the  bank  before  him. 
"  you  outweigh  me  by  ten  povmds ;  shove  in  the 
mountain  side." 

Maynard  reached  out  one  hand  and  pushed  upon  a 
projecting  rock.  The  face  of  the  cliff  swung  in,  and 
Motier,  looking  through  the  ragged  moss-fringed 
opening,  stared  into  a  dark  passageway  ending  at  an 
oaken  door. 

"Why,  man!"  said  Du  Val,  as  he  entered,  "you 
have  a  key  to  the  very  bowels  of  the  earth.  Who  would 
have  thought  that  your  rocks  and  rubbish  concealed 
a  door !" 

"One  man  found  it  several  weeks  ago.  Coming  in 
one  night  I  found  a  paper  right  where  your  feet  are 
now.  On  it  was  the  message,  'I  have  found  you,  but 
you  are  safe.  Pile  some  more  rocks  before  your 
entrance.    D.  B.' " 

"Who  was  D.  B.?" 

"Daniel  Boone,  a  hunter.  Poor  fellow,  I  fear  he 
was  killed  in  a  recent  Indian  massacre  in  the  country 
beyond  the  mountains." 

"In  that  wilderness  of  Augusta  county,  in 
Virginia?" 

"The  same;  but  called  by  the  Indians  'Kentucky,' 
the  dark  and  bloody  ground." 

They  opened  the  inner  door  and  stepped  into  the 
captain's  lamp-lit  parlor.    There  Maynard  left  him. 

Motier  sat,  with  legs  crossed,  in  a  rustic  chair, 
smoking  and  looking  down  at  the  floor.  He  had 
thought  much  of  Alice  during  the  day,  and  she  was 
in  his  mind  now.  There  came  the  memory  of  her  as 
she  had  pinned  the  rose  upon  his  coat ;  and  the  thought 

319 


Wallannah 

of  their  parting,  hitherto  a  source  of  amusement  to 
him,  began  to  hurt,  as  a  wound  on  the  field  of  battle 
when  a  man  first  sees  it  after  an  hour's  bleeding. 

Then  came  the  recollection  of  Esther's  letter,  with 
its  statement  that  Alice  had  kept  the  rose.  "If  she 
kept  it,"  he  reflected,  letting  the  fire  die  out  in  his  pipe ; 
"if  she  still  keeps  it,  she  must  have  her  reason  for  doing 
so.  I  still  keep  the  thing  in  my  mind  ;  and  I  must  have 
my  reason  for  that.  One  reason  and  one  other  reason 
make  two  reasons ;  and  two  reasons  mean  what?"  He 
stared  at  the  toe  of  his  boot  and  smiled.  "Two  reasons 
mean  what?"  he  repeated,  speaking  aloud. 

"If  one  is  a  woman's  reason,"  sounded  Maynard's 
voice  at  his  elbow,  "they  mean  one  of  two  things." 

"And  they?"  asked  Motier,  rising  and  relighting 
his  pipe. 

"Heaven  or  hell." 

Motier  smiled  as  the  memory  of  the  girl  in  the 
oaken  chair  at  the  table's  head  came  again.  "God 
grant  it  be  the  first,"  he  said.  And,  arm  in  arm,  the 
two  went  to  ♦he  aoonday  meal. 


320 


Caged  Birds 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

Caged  Birds  —  With  a  Little  SwoRd  Play 

EN  men  were  congregated  in  the  Grand 
Hall  of  the  caverns.  Rednap  Howell,  the 
people's  poet,  and  James  Hunter  and 
Samuel  Divinney,  leaders  in  the  fight  against 
the  crown,  sat  around  a  table  on  which  stood  a  jug  of 
wine  and  several  glasses,  with  the  fragments  of  a  recent 
supper.  The  light  of  the  iron  lamp  on  the  wall 
revealed  the  bulky  form  of  Herman  Husbands  sitting 
upon  a  rustic  seat  near  the  middle  of  the  room;  and 
six  others,  all  of  the  host  of  Regulators,  reclined  upon 
the  floor  in  various  attitudes,  listening  to  the  final 
words  of  a  story  which  Hunter  was  telling. 

After  the  discussion  which  followed  the  ending  of 
the  tale.  Hunter  spoke  again.  "Sing  us  a  song, 
Howell,"  he  cried,  thumping  on  the  table  for  silence. 

"I  have  sung  for  days  like  a  caged  bird,"  was  the 
poet's  response;  "but  then  we  still  hoped.  The  hope 
has  died,  and  the  music  with  it.  How  can  we  sing 
Zion's  songs  in  a  strange  land?  We  have  hung  our 
harps  upon  the  willows." 

"Bah !"  growled  Husbands,  enclouding  himself  in 
a  great  puff  of  tobacco-smoke.  "Rednap,  my  boy, 
thank  God  that  we're  all  here,  and  make  merry  for  that. 
Tat  sorrow  is  better  than  lean  sorrow.'  'Never  fight 
your  own  shadow.'    Sing  the  song." 

321 


Wallannah 

Howell  shock  his  long  curls.  "What  is  more  to  the 
point,"  he  said,  glancing  toward  the  jug.  "  'It  is  ill 
talking  with  a  dry  throat,'  to  use  one  of  your  proverbs. 
Fill  the  cups,  Divinney." 

"Captain  Hunter,  a  toast!"  called  Husbands. 

"Willingly,"  responded  Hunter,  rising  with  a  filled 
glass  in  his  hand.  "Since  we  have  been  branded  as 
traitors  for  resisting  a  tyrannous  and  oppressive 
governor,  let  us  set  ourselves  aright.  I  propose,  his 
Majesty  King  George  —  God  bless  him!" 

"Drink  it  not !"  shouted  Husbands,  starting  to  his 
feet. 

The  men  put  down  their  glasses.    "Why  not?    'Are 

we  indeed  traitors?" 

"No ;  but  rebels,  perhaps.  Remember,  friends,  ttiat 
our  grievances  went  to  the  very  steps  of  the  throne, 
and  were  sent  back  to  Tryon.  Our  rights  are 
disregarded:  we  can  acknowledge  no  rights  that  are 
not  reciprocal.  We  complain  of  Tryon,  and  our 
complaint  displeases  the  king  because  'his  Excellency,' 
William,  is  a  royal  favorite.  'Love  me  love  my  dog.' 
The  two  are  one  and  the  same  to  us.  We  cannot  love 
the  dog,  why  should  we  give  our  blessing  to  the  master 
who  sets  him  upon  us.  The  truth  may  as  well  come 
out:  which  of  you  here  can  lay  his  hand  over  hii 
heart  and  say  before  God  that  he  loves  King  George 
of  England  ?  Where  is  one  man  to  say  it  ?"  He  glared 
about  the  room.    No  one  answered. 

"I  knew  it,"  continued  Husbands,  exultantly. 
"There  is  no  man  here  so  craven  as  to  lick  the  foot 
that  gives  him  the  kick.  And  I  tell  you,  brothers, 
there  are  ten  hundred   thousand   hearts   in  America 

322 


Caged  Birds 

ready  to  respond  to  the  truth  I  have  spoken.  A  few 
more  acts  of  royal  tyranny,  and  the  people  will  be 
kin 


I" 


The  men  burst  into  a  cheer. 

"1  amend  my  toast,"  cried  Hunter.  "To  the 
sovereign  people !" 

*T  am  with  you !"  And  Husbands  crossed  to  the 
table. 

"To  the  people  —  God  give  'em  what  they  want!'' 
shouted  Howell. 

"To  the  people,''  yelled  Divinney.  "May  their 
pov/der  never  fail  1" 

And  the  men  on  the  floor  joined  in  the  cry,  "To  the 
people !" 

Silence  reigned  while  the  toast  was  drunk. 

After  a  full  minute  Howell  spoke  to  Husbands. 
"But  the  time  is  not  yet,"  he  said,  brushing  back  the 
hair  from  his  eyes.  "Where  do  you  go  to  wait  for  this 
day?" 

Husbands  answered  him.  "I  ?  I  must  go  home  — 
or  to  Sandy  Creek,  for  I  have  no  home  —  and  arrange 
to  move  my  family  to  some  place  of  temporary 
safety." 

"Openly  or  in  disguise?"  asked  Hunter. 

"Openly.  The  governor  and  his  soldiers  have  gone 
back  by  this  time.    Furtlier  caution  is  unnecessary." 

A  welcoming  murmur  sounded  through  the  hall. 
Captain  Maynard  stood  in  the  archway.  "Room  for 
me?"  he  asked,  moving  forward. 

A  laugh  went  around  the  circle.  "Room  for  the 
host!"  some  one  shouted.  And  Maynard  sat  by  the 
side  of  Hunter. 


Wallannah 

The  room  again  rang  with  the  speeches  of  the 
patriots,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  little  clouds  of 
smoke  from  their  pipes. 

Suddenly  a  voice  sounded  above  theirs.  "Who 
keeps  house?" 

The  men  started  to  their  feet,  and  Howell  and 
Hunter  reached  for  their  pistols.  A  man  whose  age 
was  somewhere  beyond  thirty-five  stood  in  the 
doorway.  His  sinewy  form  was  clad  in  the  garb  of 
the  mountaineer,  his  rifle-butt  rested  on  the  floor,  and 
his  face  v/ore  a  frank,  cheery  smile. 

'•'Who  is  he?" 

"How  did  he  get  here  ?" 

"What's  his  business?" 

The  clear  eyes  never  wavered  and  the  firm  thin  lips 
changed  in  no  way  from  their  smile  as  the  hunter  heard 
these  questions.    "Evenin'  I"  he  said,  saluting. 

Husbands  advanced.  "Evening,  stranger !  You 
are  —  Hello,  Dan  !  I  vow  I  did  not  know  you.  We'd 
heard  you  were  dead.  Gentlemen,  my  old  friend, 
Daniel  Boone." 

"Give  him  the  grip,"  cried  Howell. 

Boone,  led  by  Husbands,  came  to  the  knot  of 
men  who  stood  by  the  table,  and  shook  hands  with 
them  all. 

Maynard  spoke.  "I've  never  met  you  before,  Mr. 
Boone,"  he  said,  with  a  smile.  "But  you  did  me  the 
honor  of  leaving  your  card  some  weeks  ago." 

Boone  laughed,  showing  a  row  of  strong  white 
teeth.  "I  recollect,"  he  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 
"You  kept  me  from  killin'  a  deer  that  day.  I  had  my 
bead  on  'im,  when  you  came  along  atween  us.    You 

324 


Caged  Birds 

were  holdin'  your  head  down,  an'  didn't  see  me. 
Then  I  saw  where  you  went  an'  noticed  a  little  piece 
of  moss  was  off  one  of  your  hinges.  I  stuck  another  in 
its  place  an'  dropped  my  note  inside  the  door." 

"I  met  you  once,"  said  Divinney,  "near  your  home, 
on  the  Watauga." 

"I  remember.  You  were  with  a  surveyin'  party. 
But  that  was  three  years  ago  —  before  I  left  for  the 
Dark  and  Bloody  Ground." 

"And  what  is  the  news  from  the  place  you  call 
Kentucky?"  asked  Husbands.  "Did  Stuart  come  with 
you?  and  Finley?  and  Cool?  and  Holden?  and 
Monay?  I  felt  it  was  a  last  farev/ell  when  you  left  old 
Pennsylvania." 

"I've  left  all  the  boys  in  Kentucky,"  said  Boone, 
sadly.  "Stuart  fell  beside  me  in  an  Indian  fight.  He 
was  the  last  of  'em  all ;  for  the  others  had  disappeared 
before  that,  imprisoned  or  massacred  by  the  Indians, 
But  Kentucky  is  a  glorious  country,  for  all  that.  I'm 
goin'  back  as  soon  as  I  can  get  my  fam'ly  ready.  You 
can  be  free  there.    Come  with  us.  Husbands !" 

Husbands  smiled.  "We  will  think  of  it,"  he  said. 
"But  your  pictures  are  none  of  the  brightest.  Now, 
tell  us,  what  brings  you  here  to-night?" 

Boone  threw  one  leg  across  a  corner  of  the  table 
and  sat  there,  swinging  his  moccasined  foot.  "I've 
been  marchin'  twenty  miles  with  a  company  of  light 
horse,"  he  said,  carelessly.  "They  pressed  me  into 
service  to  guide  'em  to  the  mountain." 

A  growl  of  wrathful  surprise  came  from  the  men 
about  him. 

"What  are  the  troops?"  asked  Maynard,  quickly. 

325 


Wallannah 

"Men  from  New  Hanover,  of  Colonel  Ashe's 
command." 

"What  are  they  after  ?" 

"Lookin'  for  Captain  Neale." 

"Nothing  else?" 

"Perhaps ;  they  mentioned  your  name  and  that  of 
Husbands.  That's  why  I  came  here  to  tell  you.  My 
conscience  don't  trouble  me,  for  they  forced  me  into 
service.  They  made  me  promise  to  get  back  by 
sunrise." 

"How  many  are  there?" 

"Twelve,  and  an  Indian  guide.  I  don't  know  what 
sort  of  Indian  he  is,  for  he  said  nothin'  in  my  hearin' 
an'  kept  his  face  hid  by  his  blanket.  They've  got  your 
old  friend  Witten  with  'em,  too." 

"Witten!"  shouted  Hunter.  "Boys,  here's  that  we 
steal  Witten !" 

"Steal  him  it  is,"  answered  the  chorus. 

Motier  came  into  the  hall,  and  approaching  Boone 
each  was  made  known  to  the  other. 

"Get  up  your  sword-arm  muscle  once  more,"  said 
Howell,  as  Motier  moved  to  his  side. 

"What's  on  hand?    Cherokees?" 

"Naw !  Cherokees  are  gentlemen :  these  fellows 
are  the  governor's  soldiers." 

"And  therefore  not  gentlemen  ?  I  was  a  governor's 
soldier  once."  * 

"Caesar !  I  forgot  that.  Poetic  license,  you  see.  I 
will  make  amends." 

"Keep  your  amends.  Let's  get  together  with  Boone 
and  the  best  of  your  people,  and  see  what  we  can  do." 

They  acted  immediately,  and  a  council  of  war  was 

326 


Caged  Birds 

held  around  the  table.  As  one  of  its  results,  two  of 
the  men  were  put  on  guard,  one  at  the  cabin,  the  other 
at  the  secret  entrance. 

Motier  v^as  in  the  parlor,  buckling  on  a  sword-belt 
with  a  scabbard  that  fitted  Jack  Ashburne's  blade.  "If 
it  comes  to  aught,"  he  said,  affectionately  patting  the 
cold  steel,  "serve  me  well,  for  Jack's  sake."  And  he 
smiled  as  the  blade  grated  a  little  on  its  way  to  its  place. 

Suddenly  a  man  dressed  as  a  hunter  burst  into  the 
parlor  with  the  cabin-guard  behind  him.  He  stopped 
short  as  he  caught  the  glance  of  Motier's  eyes. 

Du  Val  laughed  lightly.  "Have  no  fear,  Witten," 
he  said,  assuringly.  "I'm  no  longer  a  king's  officer. 
Go  into  the  other  room :  they  want  you  there."  He 
followed  the  hunter,  and  sent  the  guard  back  to  his 
post. 

A  suppressed  cheer  greeted  Witten  as  he  broke  into 
the  hall. 

"They're  a-comin',  boys,"  he  said.  "The  hull  gang 
of  'em.  Run  half  yer  men  out  the  front  way,  an' 
half  —  But,  Gawd  !    Thar  ain't  no  other  way !" 

Maynard  laughed.  "And  half  the  other  way,"  he 
said,  with  a  smile.    "For  there  is  another." 

"Then,  cut  yer  army  in  two  and  chase  half  each 
way;  then  ketch  'em  when  they  comes  inter  the  place 
by  the  cabin." 

That  was  the  plan,  and  so  they  carried  it  out.  In 
fifteen  minutes  a  corporal  with  his  guard,  led  by  the 
blanketed  Indian,  filed  past  the  secret  door  and  went 
toward  the  cabin.  As  they  passed  from  sight  Hunter 
with  six  men,  crept  out  behind  them.  When  the  squad 
reached  the  cabin  door,  they  stood  a  moment  and  the 

327 


Wallannah 

corporal  and  the  Indian  spoke  a  few  words  together. 
Suddenly,  a  swarm  of  Regulators  rushed  from  the  hut, 
and  the  other  detachment  attacked  them  from  the  rear. 
Two  or  three  shots  were  fired  into  the  air;  but  the 
victory  was  a  bloodless  one. 

The  soldiers  were  surrounded  and  disarmed,  and 
Maynard,  laughing  and  chatting  merrily,  began  to 
parley  with  the  corporal  with  a  view  to  paroling  him 
and  his  men  upon  their  oath  to  keep  his  whereabouts 
secret  for  a  month. 

While  the  captors  stood  at  rest  in  a  circle  about  the 
royal  soldiery,  Motier,  apart  from  the  others,  saw  that 
the  blanketed  Indian  was  not  among  the  prisoners.  A 
suspicion  of  treachery  came  to  his  mind.  Stepping 
back  while  Maynard  talked  with  the  corporal,  Duval, 
loosening  his  sword  in  its  sheath,  crept  slowly  along 
beside  the  cliff  wall.  Suddenly  by  the  very  brink  of 
the  pool  he  saw  a  dark  figure  with  a  great  bundle  in 
its  arms  stealing  toward  the  oak  by  the  spring. 

Silently  he  followed  until  the  man  reached  the  tree 
and  laid  his  burden  on  the  ground.  Then  Motier  saw 
the  pale  face  of  Wallannah  above  the  Indian's  blanket, 
which  was  wrapped  about  her.  Her  eyes  were  closed 
and  she  looked  as  one  in  a  faint.  Keeping  the  oak 
between  himself  and  the  savage,  Motier  crept  closer. 
Once  he  peered  around  the  tree-trunk.  The  Indian's 
face  was  turned  from  him ;  but  he  saw  that  he  wore 
a  buckskin  hunting  suit  with  fringed  leggings.  A 
sudden  move  revealed  a  long  sword  hanging  from  his 
belt. 

Motier  gasped  with  surprise.  "An  Indian  with  a 
rapier!"    he    muttered.      "It    passes    me!"      Keeping 

328 


Caged  Birds 

behind  the  tree,  he  took  off  his  sword-belt  and  laid  it 
on  the  grass.  Then,  stripping  off  his  coat,  he  rolled 
up  his  right  shirt-sleeve.  He  stooped  and  drew  Jack 
Ashburne's  sword  from  its  sheath,  and,  passing  around 
the  tree,  noiselessly  crossed  the  grass  to  where  the 
Indian  stood  looking  down  the  valley. 

Du  Val  placed  his  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder. 
"Surrender  that  woman  to  me,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  man  turned  on  his  heel  and  Motier,  scanning 
the  painted  features  by  the  moonlight,  saw  who  the 
fellow  was. 

The  disguised  man  uttered  a  low  laugh.  "Well,  by 
God  1"  he  said,  "I've  got  you  at  last !" 

"Not  yet,"  and  Motier  smiled  grimly  as  he  said  it. 
"Draw !" 

The  steel  rang  as  Jake  Cantwell,  unbuckling  his 
belt  let  the  scabbard  slip  from  his  blade.  Then,  kicking 
the  belt  across  the  green,  he  raised  his  rapier.  The 
swords  met  with  a  shivering  ring. 

Motier  spoke.  "Will  you  surrender  her  to  me?" 
he  asked,  coldly. 

"She's  mine  now,  and  she'll  stay  mine.  If  you  call 
the  other  fellows,  I'll  kill  her  before  they  get  here." 

"Guard  yourself!"  was  the  curt  reply.  And  those 
were  the  last  words,  save  only  three,  spoken  between 
them. 

From  the  first  touch  of  the  steel  Motier  knew  that 
he  had  underestimated  the  powers  of  his  enemy. 
Cantwell  was  heavier  and  stronger,  and  his  arm  and 
his  sword  both  outreached  Motier's.  But  Du  Val  was 
cool  and  calm,  while  Cantwell's  face  was  flushed  and  a 
little  line  of  foam  marked  where  his  lips  parted. 


Wallannah 

The  fight  was  a  fast  and  a  hot  one.  Du  Val  was 
forced  to  the  defensive,  and  as  their  blades  clashed  and 
clicked  and  shivered  and  as  spark  after  spark  flew  from 
their  contact,  Cantwell  slowly  bore  him  toward  the 
rock-girt  pool.  Step  by  step  they  went,  until  Motier 
could  hear  the  hissing  of  the  torrent's  bubbling  foam 
as  it  broke  into  the  still  waters  of  the  basin  behind  him. 
Yet,  as  he  parried  thrust  after  thrust  and  Cantwell's 
long  blade  came  no  nearer  to  his  Vvhite  shirt-front, 
Motier's  lips  formed  in  the  half-smile  which  had  played 
upon  them  that  day  in  the  wood  when  this  same  man 
had  fired  upon  him  from  behind  a  tree. 

Suddenly  a  yell  came  from  the  group  by  the  cabin. 
Cantwell  muttered  a  growling  curse.  The  Regulators 
and  their  captives,  the  latter  bound  by  their  parole, 
rushed  across  the  sward.  Du  Val,  still  parrying 
Cantwell's  terrific  thrusts,  heard  Maynard's  voice. 

"Leave  them  alone,"  the  captain  shouted.  "A  fair 
fight  for  them  both !"  And  the  men  to  the  number  of 
over  a  score  formed  in  a  line,  watching  the  two  whose 
swords  gleamed  and  clashed  in  the  moonlight. 

At  last  they  stood,  Motier  with  his  heel  upon  the 
pool's  edge,  his  arm  throbbing  with  weariness,  and 
Cantwell  making  a  final  effort  to  drive  him  into  the 
depths  of  the  basin.  Du  Val  wavered  a  Httle.  A 
murmur  came  from  the  crowd.  The  Frenchman's  right 
foot  raised  a  little  from  the  ground,  and  his  other  heel 
was  slowly  slipping  on  the  brink  of  the  ledge. 

Cantwell  laughed  under  his  breath.  He  made 
another  thrust.  "After  you, — Wallannah !"  he  snarled. 
But  in  his  moment  of  exultation  he  wavered  in  his 
guard.    A  sudden  gleam  came  to  Motier's  eyes.    He 

330 


Caged  Birds 

gave  a  quick  lunge  and  the  point  of  his  sword  ripped 
through  Cantwell's  throat,  and  cut  off  the  fellow's 
laugh  half  way. 

Motier  stepped  over  Cantwell's  body  and 
approached  Maynard.  "She  is  there  by  the  spring," 
he  said,  pointing  toward  the  oak 

Maynard  looked  up  in  surprise.  "Who?"  he 
asked. 

"Wallannah.    Go  and  see." 

Maynard  rushed  across  the  grass  and  Motier, 
bowing  to  the  circle  of  men,  strode  over  to  get  his  coat 
and  belt.  Then  he  crossed  to  where  the  captain  held 
his  wife's  head  upon  his  knee. 

"She  is  better  nov/,"  Maynard  said,  softly.  "Was 
that  fellow  carrying  her  away  ?" 

"He  was." 

"H'm !    I  think  I  begin  to  see." 

Motier,  wiping  his  sword  upon  the  grass,  looked 
inquiringly  at  the  captain. 

But  Maynard  did  not  explain  what  he  had  begun 
to  see.  "You  did  your  work  well,  my  boy :  I  never 
saw  a  prettier  fight.  But,  heavens  !  I  thought  he  had 
you." 

Motier  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "So  did  he,"  he 
answered,  quietly.  "But  he  was  a  dead  man  from  the 
very  draw.  Had  he  not  been  —  "  He  hesitated  a 
little. 

"Then  what?" 

Motier  pointed  toward  Wallannah.  "He  said  that 
he  would  have  killed  her." 

Maynard's  eyes  flashed.  "Did  he  say  that  to 
you?" 

331 


Wallannah 

"He  did.  It  was  his  life  or  hers ;  and  that  — "  But 
he  paused  again. 

"And  that?"  repeated  Maynard,  eagerty. 

Motier  met  his  eyes.  "That  was  all  that  kept  me 
from  going  down  to  the  pool,"  he  answered.  And,  as 
Motier  turned  and  left  the  man  and  his  wife  together, 
the  moonlight  shone  full  upon  a  dark  blotch  where  the 
blood  oozed  from  a  jagged  tear  in  his  shirt-front. 


332 


Reckoning  an  Account 


.CHAPTER  XXVIII 

Reckoning  an  Account 

QUIRE  CANTWELL  sat  at  the  desk  In  his 
motto-embellished  office  in  New  Bern.  His 
right  hand  held  a  letter  which  he  had 
received  from  Captain  Maynard  a  week 
before  informing  him  of  the  death  of  Jacob  Cantwell, 
and  his  left  rested  upon  the  manuscript  of  an  address 
which  he  was  expecting  to  deliver  at  a  prayer-meeting 
on  the  following  Sabbath  day.  Cantwell  was  looking 
toward  Simon  Fawn,  v/ho  sat  in  an  easy  chair  near  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

"  'The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away,'  " 
he  said,  with  resignation ;  "  'blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord.' " 

Fawn,  having  his  own  opinion  of  Jake  Cantwell's 
character,  looked  reflectively  at  the  floor.  "Yes, 
'blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord,' "  he  repeated, 
slowly. 

Cantwell  did  not  catch  the  deeper  significance  of  the 
merchant's  words. 

Fawn  looked  up  after  a  moment's  pause.  "What  a 
good  thing  it  is  that  you  are  such  a  faithful  believer 
in  the  divine  wisdom,"  he  said,  sympathetically.  "A 
worldly  man  would  have  grieved  more.  Such  faith  as 
yours,  friend  John,  is  indeed  sublime." 

333 


Wallannah 

"No,  no,"  said  Cantwell,  with  humble  deprecation, 
"my  faith  is  but  a  httle  thing;  but  I  thank  God  for 
such  as  it  is.  It  carries  me  over  many  a  stormy 
way." 

Simon  gave  a  Httle  gasp,  which  he  straightway 
opened  into  a  sleepy  yawn.  "We  m.ust  all  die  some 
day,  neighbor,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  puffy  hands 
together,  and  giving  a  pious  leer  across  the  desk,  "and 
Jake  —  may  God  bless  his  spirit !  —  had  to  go  some 
time.  It  must  console  you  to  know  that  he  died  bravely 
in  your  service,  a  martyr  to  filial  duty.  He  will  have 
his  reward ;  but  you,  John,  have  lost  your  right  hand. 
None  other  could  serve  you  like  Jake." 

"He  was  a  good  boy,  and  a  true  son." 

"Yes,  a  true  son  of  a  worthy  father."  Simon's  light 
eyes  had  something  like  satire  in  them,  but  the  'Squire, 
looking  down  at  his  sermon,  failed  to  catch  the  gleam. 

Several  seconds  passed  before  either  spoke.  Then 
Fawn  moved  in  his  chair.  "Did  i^.Iaynard  kill  him?" 
he  asked,  crossing  his  legs  and  resting  his  chin  on  one 
hand. 

Cantwell  looked  up  slowly.  "Maynard?"  he 
repeated.  "No;  I  think  not:  he  writes  me  a  letter 
of  condolence,  but  says  little  of  the  circumstances  of 
the  boy's  death." 

"Perhaps  Jake  found  the  one  for  whom  he  looked." 

"Young  DuYal?" 

"None  other." 

The  'Squire's  head  shook  with  a  convinced 
negative.  "No,  I  should  say  not.  Had  he  met  Du  Val 
the  funeral  would  have  been  from  another  quarter.  No 
one  could  stand  before  Jake's  sword." 

334 


Reckoning  an  Account 

"But  setting  Du  Val  aside,  I  have  my  doubts  about 
Maynard.    He's  a  hard  customer." 

"You  are  qualified  to  speak,  I  believe.  He  handled 
you  very  well  in  that  powder  conspiracy." 

"Yes,  I  can  speak  as  one  having  authority.  And 
where  I  fail,  you  may  well  be  careful  yourself.  A  hard 
customer,  John !  Did  he  happen  to  write  anything 
concerning  his  wife?" 

Cantwell  looked  a  trifle  surprised.  "His  v/ife? 
Why,  she's  been  dead  for  fifteen  years !  He  wouldn't 
write  of  her." 

Fawn  smiled  broadly.  'Oh,  no!  certainly  not. 
But  don't  you  suppose  I  know  as  well  as  you  that 
Wallannah,  the  goddess  or  whatever  she  may  be,  is 
Mrs.  Maynard?  Had  she  been  dead,  you  would  have 
given  yourself  but  little  concern  about  the  captain. 
You  see,  I  knov/  this  secret ;  but  its  safe,  like  all  the 
others  —  for  a  consideration,  you  know." 

"I  think  I  do  know." 

"No  doubt.  You  see,  I  have  no  wish  to  thwart 
these  virtuous  little  plans  of  yours ;  for  my  friendly 
interest  makes  we  wish  to  see  you  rich  —  the  richer 
the  better.  Then  too,  as  we  have  said  before,  we  must 
cherish  the  goose  that  lays  the  egg  of  gold.  Folly 
would  it  be  to  break  up  the  nest." 

The  'Squire  looked  gravely  at  the  guileless  Simon. 
"I  will  be  frank  with  you,"  he  said,  dropping  his  eyes, 
"for,  as  you  say,  your  interest  is  much  the  same  as 
mine.  Now  then,  let's  understand  this  matter.  If 
Alaynard  ever  gets  his  pardon  —  and  he  has  friends 
who  may  prevail  upon  Tryon's  successor  —  the  nest 
will  be  broken  of  its  own  self.    As  it  now  stands,  she 

335 


Wallannah 

is  dead  —  to  the  world,  I  mean  —  and  without  a  child ; 
but  he  may  bring  her  to  Hfe  again,  for  I  learn  that 
Boggs  has  been  visiting  her  and  entertains  hope  of  her 
recovery.  Under  the  authority  of  her  brother's  will  — 
her  brother  was  Richard  Dudley,  you  recall  —  under 
that  authority,  I  felt  warranted  in  taking  her  property 
as  my  own.  I  have  sold  some  of  it,  including  the  lot 
on  which  stood  the  IMaynard  house  before  the  fire  that 
caused  the  death  of  Maynard's  little  son  Arthur.  If 
Margaret  Maynard  were  left  to  herself  she  would  never 
come  back  to  New  Bern,  and  would  pass  away  in  the 
mystery  of  her  singular  character  as  the  'great 
Wallannah.'  But  at  hom.e  again,  and  in  her  right 
mind,  she  might  make  it  awkward  for  me.  Where 
then  would  be  the  golden  egg?" 

"But  the  property  will  be  yours  at  last :  she  has  no 
child." 

"After  all  these  years  she  may  claim  one.  What 
proof  could  I  bring  against  her?  The  onus  probandi 
would  rest  on  me.  No,  no,  friend ;  Maynard  must  not 
come  back." 

"Well,  attend  to  that  end  of  it  yourself.  I  want  you 
to  increase  in  wealth ;  but,  as  it  is  now,  you  have 
enough  to  divide.  You  and  I  can  live  on  it,  can't  we, 
friend  John?" 

Cantwell  swore  inaudibly,  but  with  great  earnest- 
ness. "You  have  lived  on  it  long  enough,  I  guess,"  he 
said,  with  some  show  of  spirit.  "Why  don't  you  fasten 
your  talons  in  some  other  lamb?" 

Fawn's  massive  frame  shook  with  laughter. 
"Lamb !  Oh,  my  Lord !  You're  a  lovely  lamb,  such  a 
dear,  soft  spring  lamb!    How  innocently  you  gambol 

336 


Reckoning  an  Account 

on  the  green  I  John,  my  tender  httle  lamb,  shake  off 
your  wool,  and  settle  down  to  business.  Business 
before  pleasure;  eh,  lambie?  How  much  money  did 
you  get  for  the  property  you  sold  Du  Val  ?" 

Cantwell's  face  was  a  little  red,  and  his  teeth 
showed  with  a  wolfish  smile.  "If  you're  through  with 
your  insane  bantering,  I'll  tell  you.  I  got  four  hundred 
pounds  for  it." 

"Say  four  hundred  —  though  I  know  it's  a  — 
what's  the  genteel  word  ?  —  a  prevar-i-ca-tion.  Good 
word,  eh,  John?  Anyway,  two  hundred  of  it  will  do 
me  for  the  present." 

"Two  hundred  pounds !  You're  a  highwayman :  I 
can't  spare  that  much." 

"Spare  isn't  the  word,  John.  Be  more  particular 
with  the  king's  English,  Do  not  say  'can't  spare' ;  say 
'got  to  pay' :  it's  more  to  the  point.  Let  me  rehearse 
my  account,  then  I'll  put  it  onto  paper.  That's  fair  and 
square ;  and  you  won't  have  to  pay  a  penny  beyond  it. 
Let  me  see.  J.  M. — No;  the  Honorable  John  M. 
Cantwell  to  S.  Fawn,  debtor.  For  services  rendered  in 
helping  to  keep  one  wife  out  of  the  way  of  the  other, 
one  hundred  pounds." 

"I  paid  that  once." 

"On  last  year's  account,  yes ;  but  we're  talking  of 
the  current  year  now.  Don't  squirm;  the  charge  is 
moderate.  Now,  item  second,  services  rendered  in 
keeping  secret  the  real  parentage  of  your  daughter, 
AHce  Cantwell  (known  to  the  world  as  Alice  De  Vere), 
fifty  pounds.    What  say  you  to  that  ?" 

"One  and  the  same  with  the  first  item.  If  Alice 
finds  me  to  be  her  father,  she  will  necessarily  know 

337 


Wallannah 

of  my  marriage  to  her  mother,  Mary  Ross.  I  can  pay 
no  separate  sum  for  that."  r 

"Well  enough.  That  will  make  the  first  item  one 
hundred  and  fifty  in.«tead  of  one  hundred.  It's  all  the 
same  to  me." 

"Now,  before  you  go  on  with  the  rest  of  your 
ravings,  give  me  a  hearing  on  another  question.  Alice 
is  old  enough  to  look  out  for  herself  now :  suppose  she 
stumbles  onto  this  secret  of  identity.  I'm  afraid  after 
all  I  made  a  blunder  in  casting  off  Mary." 

"I  told  you  I  had  given  you  a  good  wife,  and  that 
you  were  at  fault  for  not  having  kept  her.  But  what 
has  Alice  been  doing?" 

"Winning  a  v/ealthy  man  for  a  husband,  that's 
what." 

"You  mean  the  Frenchman  ?" 

"Frenchman  the  devil !    No ;  Lord  Durham." 

"Lord  Durham !  Alice  De  Vere  and  he  expect  to 
marry  ?" 

"Alice  Cantwell,  you  mean." 

"She  is  Alice  De  Vere  to  him  and  to  every  one  else 
except  you  and  me:  how  can  you  claim  her  openly? 
Ah,  noble  friend !  You  are  one  of  these  wondrous 
chess-players  who  blocks  his  own  pawns,  and  sticks 
fast  in  the  middle  of  the  game.  You  must  resign  your 
claim  as  her  sire.  But  this  Durham  matter  surprises 
me:  he's  old  enough  for  her  father." 

"In  the  eyes  of  the  fair,  Simon,  a  nobleman  is  never 
old  so  long  as  his  money  lasts." 

"But  are  you  sure  of  this  thing?" 

"Cer-tain-ly,"  was  the  emphatic  response.  "He 
visits  her  every  day;   and  they  ride  together  and  walk 

338 


Reckoning  an  Account 

together  hours  at  a  time.  Leaving  her  the  other 
day,  he  was  seen  to  put  his  arm  about  her  and  kiss 
her." 

"But,  dear  lamb,  these  lords  are  tricky  fellows. 
Your  unsuspecting  honesty  may  be  deceived." 

"Durham  is  an  honorable  man." 

"Thank  God  there's  one  in  New  Bern!  But  I'll 
wager  he's  no  friend  of  yours." 

Cantwell  did  not  answer. 

"Now,  to  return  to  business,"  said  Fawn,  "let's  take 
up  the  third  item  —  the  second  as  it  stands  corrected. 
Services  rendered  in  guarding  the  street  for  you,  fifty 
pounds.    No  ;  that's  too  cheap." 

"Guarding  the  street?    What  in  thunder  is  that?" 

"Hush  !  Don't  get  violent,  lamb.  You're  apoplectic 
anyway,  you  know.  It  was  on  the  night  that  your 
unfortunate  brother-in-law  lost  his  life." 

Cantwell  was  very  pale.  He  stood  up  and  looked 
Simon  in  the  face.  "What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Mr. 
Fawn  ?' 

"Mr.  Fawn?  Oh,  yes;  you  mean  me?  Well, 
Mister  Cantwell,  it  means  just  this."  He  arose  and 
stood  facing  the  'Squire.  "It  means  that  one  lovely 
night  in  April  last  I  chanced  to  pass  by  this  fold  —  a 
'fold'  is  proper  for  a  lamb's  house,  is  it  not?  —  and  I 
saw  John  Ross  come  from  your  door  and  walk  up  the 
street.  I  stepped  behind  a  tree ;  and  by  the  shimmering 
(good  word,  that!)  by  the  shimmering  moonlight  saw 
you  follow  your  brother-in-law,  walking  on  your 
tip-toes.  Thinking  that  you  and  he  had  met  in  your 
true  relations,  I  concluded  that  you  were  following  him 
to  seek  an  interview  in  some  secluded  spot,  where  the 

339 


Wallannah 

powers  of  your  artful  eloquence  might  silence  him. 
And  they  did.  That  is  what  the  second  item  means; 
for  I  kept  back  a  friend  of  yours  who  had  seen  you  and 
was  anxious  to  follow.  I'll  raise  that  amount  from 
fifty  to  a  hundred  pounds.  But  wait  till  I  set  my  watch 
by  this  handsome  new  clock  of  yours." 

Fawn,  with  provoking  calmness,  turned  his  back  to 
the  'Squire  and  v,^alked  toward  the  tall  Dutch  clock  that 
stood  upon  the  floor.  He  set  and  wound  his  watch,  and 
was  turning  to  continue  the  conversation,  when  his  eye 
caught  Cantwell's  reflection  in  the  mirror  beneath  the 
clock-face.  The  'Squire  was  fingering  a  dagger  which 
he  had  taken  from  a  desk  drawer. 

Fawn  turned  quickly  and  met  Cantwell  as  that 
worthy  crept  around  the  end  of  his  desk.  The 
merchant  reached  carelessly  to  an  inside  pocket  and 
pulled  out  a  pistol.  "Lay  down  your  pretty  dagger, 
Johnnie  boy;  you  may  cut  your  fingers."  And  Fawn 
chucked  the  'Squire  under  the  chin  with  the  muzzle  of 
the  pistol.  "There  now,  move  the  weapon  just  a  little 
farther  from  you.  That's  right !  Now  sit  down,  good 
friend,  and  quiet  your  nerves.  Lord !  What  a  delicate 
hair-trigger  this  pistol  has!  I  verily  believe  that  a 
touch  would  send  it  off;  and  my  fingers  are  subject  to 
sudden  spasms,  too.    Wouldn't  it  be  horrible  — " 

"For  God's  sake,  turn  that  thing  the  other  way!" 
cried  Cantwell.  sinking  into  his  chair.  "It  might 
go  oft*." 

"No  such  luck,  little  lamb.  I  pray  you  to  excuse 
me  for  retaining  this  dagger.  I'm  fond  of  relics,  you 
see.  Take  dov.m  the  pistol?  Why,  certainly.  I  quite 
forgot    it.      Now,    let's    resume    our    business.      No 

340 


Reckoning  an  Account 

apologies,  dear  John  I  You  were  thoughtless,  I  dare 
say;  and  intended  no  ugly  use  of  this  weapon," 

"Believe  me,  Simon,"  said  Cantwell,  contritely, 
'  you  should  have  known  me  better  than  to  think  such 
a  thing.    To  tell  the  truth  — " 

Simon  held  his  hand  to  his  ear.  "Didn't  catch  that : 
to  do  what  ?"  he  queried. 

"To  tell  the  truth —" 

"Oh,  yes !  but  the  words  came  clumsily  from  your 
mouth.    Well,  to  tell  the  truth  ?" 

"I  —  I  was  thinking  of  Alaynard,  perhaps  in  an 
unchristian  spirit." 

"And  had  I  been  Maynard  ?" 

"Don't  ask,  good  friend :  it  pains  me  to  think 
of  it." 

"Of  course,  you  tender-hearted  lamb!  Then  we 
won't  think  of  it.  Now,  our  account  stands :  one 
hundred  and  fifty  plus  one  hundred,  equals  two 
hundred  and  fifty.  That  amount  will  square  us  for  a 
while.    Give  me  your  paper  for  it." 

Cantwell  did  as  he  was  bidden,  and  Fawn  slipped 
the  bill  of  exchange  into  his  pocket. 

Then  Cantwell,  smoothing  the  wrinkles  from  his 
forehead,  swore  very  softly.  "Yor  hold  me  safe  for  a 
while  longer?"  he  askec,  after  a  silence. 

"Perfectly,  John  —  a  least  for  quite  a  time.  In  the 
meanwhile,  if  I  can  suggest  anything  to  your 
advantage,  command  me.  One  other  point,  and  I'm 
done.  I  have  written  sworn  statements  of  all  our 
dealings,  every  one  of  them ;  and  these  documents  are 
in  safe  keeping  to  be  opened  immediately  after  my 
death.      I   only   mention   this   to   secure   me   against 

341 


Wallannah 

mistakes  in  identity.  You  might  make  a  slip  some  time 
while  thinking  of  Captain  Maynard.  There,  take  your 
pretty  paper-cutter ;  and  excuse  my  precautions  in  this 
affair.  You  dehver  that  address  upon  'Christian 
HumiHty'  on  Sunday  morning,  do  you  ?" 

"Yes,  God  wilHng." 

"I  promise  you  to  be  there.  Your  pious  words  will 
thrill  my  bosom  with  awe.  Good  bye,  gentle  hypocrite : 
sleep  the  sleep  of  the  just."  And  he  went  out  of  the 
room,  leaving  Cantwell  in  a  frame  of  mind  not  far 
removed  from  lunacy. 


342 


Cupid  Seems  in  Trouble 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

Cupid  Seems  in  Trouble^ 

OTIER  DU  VAL  sat  in  his  room  in  the 
tavern  in  New  Bern.  Returning  from  the 
mountains  he  had  found  the  palace  deserted ; 
for  Tryon,  returning  from  his  march  of 
triumph,  had  been  somewhat  hurriedly  transferred 
from  the  province  of  North  Carolina  to  the  seat  of 
government  of  New  York.  There  'his  Excellency' 
found,  in  due  course,  ample  opportunity  for  the  practice 
of  his  refined  cruelties.  Lady  Tryon  and  Esther  Wake, 
with  the  entire  personal  following  of  the  governor,  had 
gone  with  him ;  and  the  doors  of  the  palace  were 
closed,  James  Hassel,  of  the  council,  preferring  to 
reside  in  his  own  home  while  handling  temporarily  the 
reins  of  government.  Lord  Durham  had  taken  up  his 
abode  in  the  village,  and  the  senior  Du  Val  had  secured 
rooms  at  the  inn.  Thus  it  was  that  at  four  o'clock  of 
the  afternoon  of  August  12,  1771,  Motier,  having 
changed  his  weather-stained  traveling  suit  for  his  garb 
of  black,  sat  by  his  window  and  smoked  the  stone  pipe 
which  had  once  been  Ocebee's  brother's. 

Du  Val  had  reached  New  Bern  an  hour  before,  and 
had  found  to  his  disappointment  that  his  father  had 
left  for  France  on  the  previous  day,  answering  a 
summons  to  claim  his  share  of  a  large  estate.    He  had 

343 


Wallannah 

left  a  letter  for  his  son,  and  its  expressions  were  so 
kindly,  and  the  powers  which  it  conferred  in  the 
management  of  his  father's  interests  in  the  province 
were  so  broad,  that  Motier  was  greatly  pleased.  He 
had  sent  Tonta,  who  was  again  with  him,  to  Doctor 
Boggs  with  a  note  from  Maynard;  but  reserved 
another  note,  to  Miss  De  Vere,  for  personal  delivery. 

Motier's  mind  still  clung  to  the  incidents  of  the 
weeks  just  past.  He  remembered  above  all  else  the  day 
that  Herman  Husbands  had  left  the  cavern  of 
Yaunocca;  and  he  seemed  even  now  to  see  the  bulky 
form  of  the  leader  of  the  Regulation  disappearing  into 
the  neck  of  the  rocky  gorge.  The  little  band  of  patriots 
had  watched  until  Husbands  had  passed  from  their 
view;  and  Captain  Maynard  and  Motier,  with 
tight-pressed  lips  and  with  moisture  in  their  eyes,  had 
stood  there  with  them.  It  was  a  pitiful  little  farewell, 
without  salute  or  the  dipping  of  flags  or  the  sound  of 
music,  and  the  pathos  of  that  hour  recurred  to  Motier 
throughout  all  the  remaining  days  of  his  life.  Herman 
Husbands  had  been  all  in  all  to  these  rugged  men, 
who  had  worked  and  hoped  and  prayed  and  fought  for 
a  liberty  that  still  stayed  a  long  way  off ;  and  Herman 
Husbands,  kindly,  genial,  great-hearted,  and  noble  of 
spirit,  went  from  their  lives  with  a  wrench  that  brought 
tears  to  the  eyes  of  men  whose  hearts  had  never  before 
softened.  What  wonder  then,  that  Howell,  trying  to 
say  a  cheering  word  as  they  turned  back  to  the  cave, 
felt  his  voice  choke  in  his  throat,  and  sat  for  a  long 
time  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  Motier 
remembered  the  expression  of  Howell's  white,  drawn 
features  as  he  looked  up  and  said,  "He  was  our  last 

344 


Cupid  Seems  in  Trouble 

hope,  my  brothers.  There's  nothing  left  for  us  but  to 
go  back  and  say,  The  friend  we  loved  has  gone,  and 
our  spirit  has  gone  with  him.  Come  on,  boys  I"  And 
with  bowed  heads  they  went  into  the  Grand  Hall  to 
prepare  for  their  journey.  Seeing  and  hearing  these 
things,  Motier  knew  that  the  words  were  those  of  a 
full  heart,  and  that  hope  indeed  was  dead  in  those  who 
had  staked  their  all  on  a  vain  fight  for  freedom. 

After  recalling  the  days  at  Yaunocca,  Motier, 
refilling  his  pipe,  began  thinking  of  Alice  De  Vere. 
Did  he  love  her?  or  did  he  not?  And  if  not,  why  did 
she  come  so  persistently  into  his  daily  thoughts  ?  Why 
had  he  ridden  his  horse  to  exhaustion  to  reach  New 
Bern  as  soon  as  he  could  ?  and  why  had  he  told  Tonta 
to  let  him  know  when  Fleetfoot  was  ready  to  carry  him 
to  Beechwood?  Why?  And  at  every  question  came 
the  memory  of  a  light-haired  girl  whose  eyes  had 
naught  but  purity  in  their  depths. 

After  an  hour  Tonta  announced  that  Fleetfoot 
awaited  him;  and  Motier,  thundering  down  the 
stairway,  bounded  into  the  yard  and  mounting  horse, 
whispered  into  Fleetfoot's  ear,  "To  her,  boy;  to  her!" 
And  the  dust  flew  from  the  road  that  led  to  Beechwood. 

Great  though  his  haste,  Motier  could  not  pass  the 
door  of  Boggs'  office  without  seeing  the  worthy 
doctor.  So  he  swung  from  his  saddle  and  entered  the 
doorway. 

Quack  met  him.  "Glad  to  see  ye  back  from  de 
wahs,  sah!"  he  said,  with  an  expansive  smile.  "Dey 
sayed  de  Injuns  done  got  you,  but  I  knowed  you  was 
too  much  fer  'em." 

"Glad    to    see    you,    Quack,"    answered    Motier. 

345 


Wallannah 

"You're  really  looking  handsome.  And  your  ruffles 
have  come  out  again !" 

The  negro  looked  proudly  at  his  shirt  front.  "Dat 
Squeecy  o'  your'n  sent  de  ol'  uns  back  yestiddy  —  to 
git  'em  washed,  I  'spec.  Dese  is  new  uns,  bran  new: 
Mars  Doctor  got  'em  made  'spressly  fer  me,  sah.  But, 
walk  in,  sah !    Marster's  a-lookin'  fer  you." 

Boggs  came  forward,  his  spectacles  shoved  up  to 
the  top  of  his  forehead,  and  his  face  glowing  with  a 
genial  smile.  "Du  Val,  God  bless  you !"  he  cried,  "I'm 
glad  to  get  you  back  again.  Come,  sit  right  down  and 
tell  me  all  about  your  fun.  Here,  Quack,  wrap  up 
those  pills.  Du  Val,  my  hearty !  these  good  people  had 
you  drawn  and  quartered  and  burned  at  the  stake,  until 
Neale  and  his  party  came  back  and  said  that  you  had 
gone  to  Wallannah  the  day  before  the  Cherokees 
turned  him  loose.  What  happened  after  he  left  ?  Did 
you  go  to  the  mountains?  Did  you  see  Wallannah? 
Tell  me  all  about  it." 

Motier,  consumed  with  impatience  and  eager  to  get 
to  the  De  Vere  mansion,  felt  that  Boggs,  good  friend 
though  he  was,  would  never  stop  talking.  But, 
knowing  that  the  doctor's  interest  was  not  that  of  idle 
curiosity,  he  told  him  all  that  he  knew. 

"You  have  given  me  new  hope,"  said  the  doctor 
when  Motier  had  told  him  his  opinion  of  Mrs. 
Maynard's  mental  condition.  "She  is  better  than  when 
I  saw  her  last.  The  letter  you  sent  me  from  the  captain 
says  much  the  same.  But,  my  dear  boy,  your 
experiences  have  been  so  remarkable  that  I  must  put 
them  into  a  book.  I  have  a  fancy  for  writing,  you 
know." 

346 


Cupid  Seems  in  Trouble 

"Let  it  be  the  book  of  your  remembrance,  tnen. 
That  will  satisfy  my  ambition." 

"Not  a  whit  of  it!  Not  a  whit!"  protested  the 
loquacious  doctor.  "Your  ambitions  demand,  or  will 
demand,  something  better.  You  shall  be  known! 
Whether  you  realize  it  or  not,  you  are  ambitious.  But 
your  ambition  is  of  the  higher  sort,  that  which  scorns 
unmerited  distinction.  There  is  another  sort,  of  which 
you  know  nothing,  the  ambition  that  only  seeks 
notoriety,  notoriety  of  any  kind.  Tony  Muckles  is  a 
good  specimen  of  that  class.  Have  I  ever  told  you  of 
Tony  ?    You  see,  Tony  — " 

Du  Val  interrupted  him.  "My  dear  doctor,"  he 
said,  with  a  laugh.  "Don't  tell  me  about  Tony  now. 
It's  a  good  story,  and  I'll  ask  you  for  it  to-morrow; 
but  I  have  an  appointment  which  presses  me." 

"Bless  my  soul!  Have  I  interfered  with  an 
engagement  ?  I  beg  your  pardon !  I  forgot  you  had 
other  friends  in  town." 

"This  errand  is  not  in  town,  doctor.  I  am  going 
to  Beechwood." 

The  doctor  pulled  down  his  spectacles  and  looked 
sharply  at  his  friend.  "You  are  going  to  the  De 
Vere's  ?"  he  asked,  with  some  incredulity. 

"Yes,"  responded  Motier ;  then,  with  a  smile,  "Why 
not?" 

"Well,  you  have  more  magnanimity  than  I 
thought."  He  paused  a  moment,  and  noting  the 
puzzled  expression  of  Du  Val's  face,  added,  "You  have 
heard,  of  course?" 

"Heard  what?" 

"The  news  of  Alice?" 

347 


Wallannah 

"I  know  no  news  of  Alice.    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"It  should  have  been  told  you,"  answered  Boggs, 
with  a  slight  embarrassment.  "Du  Val,  my  boy,  I  had 
suspected  that  you  had  a  leaning  in  her  direction ;  and 
if  you  have,  cut  loose  from  it.  She's  on  the  verge  of 
marriage." 

Motier  tapped  his  boot  with  his  riding  whip.  "And 
to  whom  ?"  he  asked,  with  apparent  carelessness. 

"To  Lord  Durham." 

"Durham?  Why,  my  dear  doctor,  you  must  be 
astray  in  your  observations.  His  Lordship  is  too  old 
for  Miss  De  Vere;  and  she  is  not  the  kind  to  sell 
herself  for  gold  and  a  title." 

"I  thought  so  —  once,"  answered  Boggs,  sadly 
shaking  his  head,  "and  I  would  gladly  think  so  again. 
She  was  long  my  ideal  of  maidenly  perfection.  I 
myself  denied  the  rumor  when  it  first  came  the  rounds ; 
but  the  repetitions  were  too  many  for  my  faith.  You 
may  as  well  go,  however;  and  I  trust  you'll  find  her 
the  same  pure-hearted  girl  you  have  always  thought 
her.  If  so  we  will  both  be  pleased ;  for  I  am  overfond 
of  the  child." 

Du  Val  turned  and  looked  thoughtfully  out  to  the 
street.  Fleetfoot  was  pawing  nervously,  and  champing 
upon  his  bit.  "I  will  go,"  said  Motier,  at  last.  "If  ".t 
ends  badly  for  me,  let  it  end."  Then  he  turned  to  the 
doctor.  "Until  to-morrow,  my  friend,  adieu!"  And 
before  Boggs  could  reach  the  door  Fleetfoot  was  a 
quarter-mile  up  the  road. 

Motier  began  thinking  that  things  were  in  a  pretty 
stew.  First  was  the  firm-seated  conviction  that  he  felt 
something  more  than  friendliness  for  Alice.    If  Doctor 

348 


Cupid  Seems  in  Trouble 

Boggs  had  heard  the  truth  Motier's  disappointment 
would  be  a  keen  one.  Du  Val's  moral  code  gave  a  low 
mark  to  any  woman  whose  ambition  or  avarice  led  her 
to  a  loveless  marriage.  In  his  opinion  the  girl  who 
gave  herself  for  a  title  and  a  fortune,  without  love,  was 
several  degrees  below  the  strange  woman  whose  house 
meant  loss  of  hope  to  whomsoever  went  within.  And 
Alice  in  such  a  role  ?  The  thought  shocked  him  beyond 
expression.  But  he  determined  to  prove  that  his 
confidence  had  not  been  misplaced.  "  'Tis  a  lie !"  he 
muttered  to  himself ;  and  every  time  that  a  break  in  the 
woods  revealed  the  grey  roofs  of  Beechwood  his  lips 
framed  that  same  sentence,  "  'Tis  a  lie !" 

At  the  door  Motier  was  met  by  Mr.  De  Vere.  '*Ah ! 
my  dear  Motier,"  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman, 
grasping  his  hand,  "can  it  indeed  be  you?  and  in 
flesh  and  blood?  We  have  mourned  you  as  lost; 
Captain  Neale's  reports  were  so  dubious.  But  you 
look  well.  Come  in:  the  ladies  are  in  the  parlor. 
We've  been  talking  of  you.  Come!  We'll  greet  you 
en  famille." 

"You  overwhelm  me,  monsieur.  But  I'm  truly 
glad  to  see  you,  and  to  note  that  you  look  so  much 
improved." 

"A  deceptive  flush,  my  boy.  I  am  no  better.  But 
of  that  later.    Come  in  1" 

Madame  De  Vere  and  Alice  and  Mary  Ross  arose 
as  Motier  entered;  and  for  the  moment  the  room  was 
filled  with  a  babble  of  greetings. 

"Had  you  been  a  spirit,"  said  Madame  De  Vere, 
"we  should  hardly  have  been  more  surprised.  But  I 
felt  sure  that  if  your  Indian  captors  ever  took  you  to 

349 


Wallannah 

Wallannah,  you  would  be  safe.  How  well  you  do 
look!" 

"Indeed,"  said  Mary  Ross,  "you  seem  as  one  who 
has  been  on  a  pleasure  trip." 

"Quite  the  reverse,"  laughed  Metier.  "If  any  one 
had  the  pleasure  it  must  have  been  a  Cherokee.  They 
gave  me  little  time  for  enjoyment." 

Alice  was  the  only  one  who  acted  under  restraint. 
Her  words  of  welcome  were  halting  and  confused. 
But  her  hand  lingered  a  moment  in  his  as  they  spoke  a 
few  words  to  one  another;  and  he  saw  a  Httle  flush 
creep  to  her  cheeks.  At  first  he  thought  he  understood 
it,  and  his  heart  beat  more  quickly;  but  he  changed 
his  mind  in  the  same  moment,  and  concluded  that  he 
had  no  idea  of  what  it  meant.  He  had  learned  that 
the  less  guessing  he  did  about  a  woman's  secret 
thoughts,  the  fewer  were  his  blunders. 

"I  have  a  letter  from  Captain  Maynard  to  you.  Miss 
De  Vere,"  he  said,  after  an  awkvv^ard  pause.  "He 
exacted  the  promise  that  I  deliver  it  into  your  own 
hands."  He  presented  the  note  with  a  bow,  and  she 
saw  that  his  smile  was  studiously  cold. 

Alice  murmured  her  thanks. 

''Read  it,  my  dear,"  said  her  mother,  "while 
Monsieur  Du  Val  tells  us  of  his  adventures." 

Motier  followed  ]\Iadame  De  Vere  to  the  sofa  with 
some  reluctance.  A  walk  in  the  garden  were  more  to 
his  liking,  and  Alice  would  have  been  his  choice  of 
companion.  But  he  was  browbeaten  after  the  gentle, 
womanly  fashion,  and  related  his  story,  carefully 
expunging  his  several  deeds  of  blood.  He  made  "some 
fellow"  the  slayer  of  Ocebee,  and  "some  other  fellow" 

350 


Cupid  Seems  in  Trouble 

the  victor  over  Cantwell;  for  he  wished  to  see  the 
effect  of  these  sanguinary  stories  before  he  jeopardized 
his  position  by  talking  too  much  of  his  own 
achievements. 

During  this  recital,  Alice,  while  seeming  to  read, 
betrayed  by  a  hundred  little  glances  that  her  chief 
interest  was  in  Motier's  narrative;  and  indeed  the 
letter  lay,  after  a  few  moments,  on  a  chair  beside  her, 
unheeded.  Motier  noticed  this ;  and  a  ray  of  comfort 
came  to  him.  But  he  had  to  confess  that  Alice  had 
not  acted  as  does  a  woman  v/ho  keeps  a  bruised  rosebud 
in  her  album. 

"How  the  time  has  passed,"  exclaimed  De  Vere, 
when  Motier  had  concluded.  "You  have  actually  made 
me  forget  my  medicine,  and  my  headache  as  well. 
Your  stories  have  made  my  blood  tingle.  I  can  hardly 
realize  that  you  have  been  through  all  these  things; 
but,  you  see,  I'm  not  a  man  of  action,  and  adventures 
are  all  strange  to  me." 

Motier  arose.  "I  am  sorry  to  leave  such  friends," 
he  said,  "but  I  must  go.  I'm  afraid  indeed  that  you 
will  make  an  egotist  of  me  if  I  remain  longer." 

"But  not  so  soon,"  protested  Madame  De  Vere. 
"We  supposed  you  would  stay  to  supper,  at  least." 

"And  through  the  night  also,"  put  in  De  Vere. 
"Your  old  room  has  been  lonely  since  you  left.  Really,' 
Motier,  you  are  leaving  us  too  early." 

"You  overpower  me  with  kindness,"  answered 
Motier.  "But  my  return  must  be  in  response  to  duty. 
I  am  under  promise." 

"But,  assuredly,  not  before  supper,"  interposed 
Mary  Ross,  pleadingly.  "It  will  be  served  in  a 
moment."  ^cj 


Wallannah 

Motier  smiled.  "Assuredly,  before  supper,"  he 
responded,  "but  not  without  great  regret."  He  moved 
toward  the  door. 

Of  them  all,  Alice  alone  had  said  nothing. 

"But  you  will  come  again,  very  soon?"  questioned 
Madame  De  Vere. 

"To-morrow,  if  you  will  let  me." 

"To-morrow  it  shall  be,  then.  Come  at  eleven,  and 
the  fat  of  the  land  shall  be  yours." 

Motier,  leaving  them  on  the  veranda,  rode  slowly 
back  to  New  Bern.  He  was  puzzled  and  disappointed 
by  Alice's  demeanor.  Had  all  that  Boggs  told  him 
been  true,  the  girl  would  have  acted  as  she  did:  had 
the  rumor  been  false,  why  then  should  she  have  kept 
such  distance  and  met  him  so  coldly?  Their  parting 
that  April  morning  might  have  given  rise  to  some 
feeling  of  lasting  resentment  in  her;  but,  if  so,  why 
had  she  kept  the  rose?  Then  came  another  question: 
had  she  thrown  it  away  since  Esther  had  seen  it? 
Somehow,  he  thought  that  she  had. 

Motier  keeping  his  promise,  returned  to  Beechwood 
on  the  morrow.  Lord  Durham  was  there  before  him. 
It  was  plainly  to  be  seen  that  his  Lordship  was  in  favor 
with  Alice ;  and  the  girl,  for  her  part,  made  no  effort 
to  conceal  her  affection.  Yet  Du  Val  could  entertain 
no  envy  of  Durham,  for  he  was  irresistibly  drawn 
toward  the  nobleman.  Notwithstanding,  Motier  did 
not  feel  at  ease.  But  neither  by  word  nor  by  action 
did  he  show  that  his  composure  was  a  well-worn  mask. 
He  exerted  himself  to  please,  and  succeeded  with  a 
success  that  overtopped  that  of  every  previous  effort. 
Still,  he  was  glad  enough  co  get  away. 


Cupid  Seems  in  Trouble 

Several  days  later  Motier,  determined  to  have  an 
interview  with  Alice,  came  again  to  the  country 
mansion.  Mr.  De  Vere  had  caught  a  severe  cold  and 
was  ill  in  his  room,  attended  by  Madame  and  by  Mary 
Ross.  Thus  did  good  fortune  leave  Ahce  to  discharge 
the  duties  of  hostess ;  and  therefore  did  Motier  go  far 
from  the  truth  when  he  said  that  he  was  sorry  not  to 
see  the  absent  members  of  the  household. 


I 


353 


Wallannah 


CHAPTER  XXX 

The  Fortune-Teller  Plays  a  Hand 

N  the  darkened  parlor  Du  Val  and  Alice 
talked  for  a  few  moments,  aimlessly,  and 
with  little  satisfaction  to  either,  and  Alice, 
realizing  the  unpleasantness  of  the  situation, 
proposea  a  walk  in  the  garden,  which  suggestion 
Alotier  accepted  with  unbecoming  haste.  Together 
they  walked  down  the  broad  hallway,  he  towering  far 
above  her,  and  she  smiling  as  she  tried  to  time  her 
steps  to  his  great  strides.  At  the  stone  stairway  to  the 
graveled  walk,  Motier,  with  some  return  of  the  old 
spirit,  extended  his  hand  to  her  as  she  stood  for  a  brief 
moment  at  the  edge  of  the  uppermost  step. 

"Permit  me  to  hand  you  down,  my  Lady,"  he  said, 
watching  for  her  notice  of  the  title  which  he  gave  her, 
and  which,  forsooth,  he  was  convinced  Durham  would 
scon  make  good.  Alice,  frankly  meeting  his  quizzical 
glance,  gave  him  her  hand. 

"You  are  kind,  my  Lord,"  she  answered,  with  no 
show  of  embarrassment.  So,  raising  her  hand 
shoulder-high,  and  keeping  always  on  the  step  below 
her,  he  led  her  to  the  garden.  She  looked  down  the 
path  with  a  swift  glance. 

"This  was  once  your  favorite  promenade,"  she  said, 
lifting  her  skirt  a  little  from  the  dust.  "Have  you 
forgotten  ?" 

354 


The  Fortune-Teller  Plays  a  Hand 

"Forgotten?"  he  echoed,  vainly  seeking  a  glimpse 
of  her  averted  face.  "A  man  cannot  forget,  even  when 
he  tries." 

They  walked  toward  the  rustic  bench.  Alice 
stopped  at  the  bush  from  which  she  had  picked  the 
white  rose  and  reached  out  her  hand;  then,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  drew  it  back  again. 

Motier  watched  her,  knowing  that  the  time  was 
near  when  something  would  be  said. 

She  turned  toward  him,  and  he  saw  the  color  rush 
to  her  temples.  "M'sieur  Du  Val,"  she  said,  "I  have 
done  you  a  great  wrong." 

"Boggs  was  right,"  thought  Motier,  gloomily.  ''I 
can  easily  admit  her  wrong."  But  he  did  not  answer 
her. 

"I  want  to  explain  it  to  you,"  she  continued,  looking 
down  as  she  nervously  fingered  the  chain  which  held 
her  fan.  "The  last  time  you  were  here  I  was  misled 
by  your  acceptance  of  an  office  on  Governor  Tryon's 
staff,  knowing  as  I  did  that  the  governor  was  Captain 
Maynard's  bitterest  enemy.  Remembering  that  our 
friend  had  really  saved  your  life  by  bringing  you  here 
after  your  runaway  accident,  I  thought  it  strange  that 
you  should  repay  him  by  going  to  war  against  him. 
But  I  have  read  Captain  Maynard's  letter.  He  writes 
of  your  gallantry,  and  of  your  faithful  discharge  of  the 
debt  of  gratitude  which  you  owed  him.  With  all  of 
this  before  me  I  want  to  ask  — "  But,  woman-like,  she 
would  beg  no  forgiveness:  instead,  she  amended  her 
question.  "You  don't  think  badly  of  me,  do  you  ?"  she 
asked,  with  bewitching  frankness. 

"Think  badly  of  you!"     Motier  smiled  into  the 

355 


Wallannah 

eyes  which  were  upturned  to  his.  "I'm  really  afraid 
that  I  think  too  well  of  you  —  too  often,  anyway."  He 
knew  enough  of  woman-nature  to  foresee  that  his 
assertion  would  pass  without  response;  but  he  made 
the  move,  trusting  to  luck  for  its  effect. 

The  cast  was  a  bad  one,  for  she  evaded,  of  course. 
"I  condemned  you  without  a  hearing,"  she  admitted, 
"and  that,  you  know,  isn't  good  law." 

"I  trust  that  vour  verdict  has  been  reversed,"  he 
said.  "I  am  reasonably  independent,  but  I  cannot 
afford  to  forfeit  your  good  opinion." 

"My  good  opinion,  M'sieur,  was  oniy  shaken  for 
the  moment ;  it  was  never  overthrown." 

"I  am  happy  to  know  it,"  he  said.  "But  let  me  ask 
you :  have  you  forgiven  my  hasty  return  of  the  rose 
which  you  gave  me  that  morning?" 

She  smiled  just  a  little.  "Positively,  I  can  never 
forgive  that;  for  it  did  not  please  me.  But  perhaps 
you  Vv-ere  right ;  and,  giving  you  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt,  I  will  grant  a  conditional  pardon." 

"And  the  condition?" 

"No  second  offense." 

"No  chance,"  he  thought  to  himself;  but  he  said 
aloud:  "Then  we  are  friends?" 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  raised  it  to  his  lips. 
Then  they  looked  at  one  another,  and  she,  laughingly, 
said:  "You  should  be  an  actor."  Then,  reaching  out 
and  picking  the  rose  which  she  had  left  untouched  a 
few  moments  before,  "you  say  and  do  things  just  like  a 
player." 

"Like  a  good  actor,  or  a  bad  one?" 

"Like  an  excellent  one." 

356 


The  Fortune-Teller  Plays  a  Hand 

"I  am  gratified  to  have  you  think  that.  An  excellent 
actor,  as  you  know,  always  lives  the  part  he  plays.  I 
play  the  part  I  live,  which  is  the  same  — " 

"But  decidedly  different,"  she  interrupted,  turning 
toward  the  rustic  bench.  "Let  us  seek  the  shadier 
spot." 

Seating  themselves  under  a  great  magnolia  tree, 
they  were  silent  for  a  very  brief  time. 

Then  Motier  broached  the  subject  which  was 
foremost  in  his  mind.  "Hov/  forgetful  I  am!"  he 
exclaimed,  with  admirable  suddenness.  "I  have 
neglected  to  congratulate  you." 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  and  looked  at  him 
curiously.  "Congratulate  me?  Upon  what,  nray 
tell  me?" 

"Upon  finding  one  more  worthy  than  I  to  wear 
your  colors." 

She  gave  a  short,  mystified  laugh.  "Riddles  and 
enigmas,  M'sieur!"  was  her  retort.  "I  am  a  poor 
analyst:  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Really  now,  can  you  not  guess  ?" 

"Not  if  I  tried  forever." 

He  studied  her  closely;  but  she  was  beautiful,  and 
a  woman,  so  his  scrutiny  availed  him  nothing.  "But 
you  are  to  be  married?"  he  ventured. 

She  laughed.  "Am  I?  Then  do  congratulate  me. 
Sir  Knight;  but  afterward  name  me  my  victim." 

"My  congratulations  are  on  record ;  and  the 
fortunate  one — Lord  Durham,  of  course." 

"Yes,  certainly;  of  course.  But  how  do  you 
know  ?" 

"I  have  heard  it  all,"  he  answered,  hopelessly. 

357 


Wallannah 

"Well,  M'sieiir  Dii  Val,  be  good  to  me  now,  and 
tell  me  all.    I  myself  have  not  heard  a  word  of  it." 

"You  are  not  to  marry  Lord  Durham  ?" 

"Positively,  no." 

"H'm!" 

Alice  laughed  at  his  discomfiture.  "You  are  brief," 
she  said. 

"I  am  paralyzed." 

He  scanned  her  radiant  face  and  tried  again  to 
puzzle  out  her  thoughts.  Wisely,  however,  he 
abandoned  the  task,  "Whence  comes  the  smoke  if 
there  be  no  fire  ?"  he  asked,  with  unpardonable  unbelief. 

"The  scandal  is  not  without  ground,"  she  replied, 
glancing  down  and  brushing  a  tiny  spider  from  the 
rose  in  her  hand,  "for  I  love  Lord  Durham  dearly; 
and  some  day  I  can  tell  you  all  there  is  to  tell.  Truly, 
though,  it  is  not  what  you  think  it  to  be." 

"I  am  very  glad." 

"Yes?" 

Motier  seized  upon  the  encouragement  of  the 
half-questioning  word.  "I  am  glad,"  he  hastened  to 
say,  "because  I  am  now  able  to  tell  you  what  before 
I  could  not.  Going  back  centuries  into  the  past,  let  me 
talk  about  the  white  rose !  Do  you  know  that  I  have 
regretted  a  thousand  times  that  I  ever  sent  it  back  to 
you?" 

"  'Centuries,'  and  'a  thousand  times' !  M'sieur,  how 
atrociously  you  exaggerate !  But  you  honestly  wanted 
the  flower?" 

"Yes;    really." 

"I  have  kept  it  for  you ;  but  it  is  sadly  withered." 

"You  remember  what  you  told  me  ?" 

358 


The  Fortune-Teller  Plays  a  Hand 

"That  you  could  have  another  ?" 

"The  very  words." 

"Well,  here  it  is.    Have  you  a  pin  ?" 

"The  same  one."  He  flushed  a  little.  "I  have  kept 
it  ever  since." 

"Foolish  boyl"  she  rejoined,  reaching  out  to  his 
coat  lapel.  "That  was  very  dangerous :  old  pins  give 
people  lockjaw,  they  say." 

"Handle  it  carefully,  then;  it's  millions  of  years 
old." 

"Have  no  fear,"  she  answered,  pinning  the  rose  into 
place,  "women  never  have  lockjaw." 

Motier,  yielding  to  a  great  temptation,  pressed  his 
lips  upon  the  fingers  which  rested  on  his  coat.  Alice 
drew  her  hand  quickly  away.  She  reddened,  and  -.at 
looking  straight  before  her  with  a  little  line  between 
her  brows. 

After  a  very  long  silence  Motier  bent  slightly 
forward.  "Did  I  understand  you  to  say,"  he 
questioned,  with  assumed  seriousness,  "that  women  are 
never  afflicted  with  lockjaw?" 

She  turned  her  eyes  until  they  met  his.  But  she 
did  not  answer  him.  After  a  moment  she  averted  her 
face. 

Motier,  resting  his  hand  upon  the  back  of  the 
settee,  moved  closer  to  her.  "Alice,"  he  said,  gently, 
"perhaps  I  v/as  wrong,  and  perhaps  I  can  only  make 
matters  worse  by  speaking;  but,  candidly,  I  had  no 
wish  to  resist  the  temptation  which  came  in  my  way 
when  you  pinned  that  flower  to  my  coat.  Measured 
by  a  man's  standard,  the  act  was  a  little  one ;  but,  truly, 
it  carried  mv  whole  heart  with  it.    I  kissed  the  hand 

359 


Wallannah 

because  I  loved  the  woman  to  whom  it  belonged."  He 
stopped  and  waited ;  but  she  did  not  answer.  Then  he 
slipped  one  hand  toward  hers.  His  heart  gave  a  quick 
leap  as  her  fingers  closed  about  his.  But  still  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  a  far-off  boxwood  hedge. 

"Alice,"'  he  said,  taking  up  the  thread  of  his 
declaration,  "I  have  told  you  what  I  should  have  kept 
secret  for  a  longer  time.  You  know  me  but  httle, 
while  I  have  known  and  loved  you  all  my  life,  first  in 
the  ideal  and  afterward  in  its  incarnation. 

"You  were  with  me  in  every  hour  of  the  weeks  I 
spent  in  the  army  and  in  the  wilderness,"  he  continued, 
desperately.  "Nothing  but  my  thoughts  of  you  gave 
me  comfort  in  the  days  of  my  imprisonment ;  and 
when  the  Cherokees  had  me  in  their  council  lodge,  I 
wondered  if  you  would  care  if  their  verdict  went 
against  me." 

The  clasp  of  her  hand  tightened  perceptibly. 

"Then,"  he  went  on,  "when  death  twice  looked  me 
in  the  face,  I  thought,  'would  she  care,  if  she  knew?' 
But  I  had  to  come  back  to  Beechwood  for  the 
answer." 

She  did  not  turn,  but  he  noticed  a  slight  trembling 
of  her  lips.  "Don't  talk  like  that,  Motier,"  she 
entreated,  in  a  voice  such  as  he  had  once  heard  in  a 
dream.    "You  do  not  know  how  it  hurts  me." 

"Would  you  really  have  cared?"  he  asked,  quickly. 

She  turned  her  gaze  full  upon  his  eager, questioning 
face.  "Would  I  have  cared?"  she  repeated,  softly. 
"Must  I  tell  you  that  I  would  have  cared  ?" 

"No ;  but  tell  me  you  are  glad  that  I  have  told  you 
this." 

360 


The  Fortune-Teller  Plays  a  Hand 

"I  think — "  she  faltered,  lowering  her  eyes,  ''I 
think  that  I  am  very  glad." 

He  slipped  his  arm  to  her  waist.  She  looked  up,  a 
vivid  jflush  overspreading  her  cheeks,  and  he  kissed 
her  quickly  upon  the  lips. 

"That  was  wrong,  Motier,"  she  admonished, 
playing  with  the  seal-ring  on  his  finger.  "I'm  afraid 
you're  terribly  —  terribly  — " 

"Bashful?"  he  suggested. 

"No ;  not  at  all  bashful." 

"Dull  of  comprehension  ?" 

"Lamentably." 

"What  have  I  failed  to  comprehend  ?" 

"You  have  comprehended,  Motier ;  but  — " 

"But  I  took  so  long,  do  you  mean?" 

"You  were  a  little  slow  in  seeing." 

"And  you?" 

"That  secret  is  mine.  But,  truly,  Motier,  do  you 
love  me  as  you  say  ?" 

"Do  I,  dearest  ?  Yes ;  devotedly  and  reverently. 
And  are  you  fully  convinced  that  I  meet  the 
requirements?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Less  than  half  of  them." 
She  arose,  brushing  some  rose  leaves  from  her  skirt: 
"I  will  say,  however,  that  fifty  per  cent,  is  very,  very 
high." 

"I  shall  try  for  a  hundred,"  he  said,  as  he  rose  and 
walked  up  the  path  with  her, 

"Useless,  Motier.  You  would  fail;  and  then,  you 
see,  I'm  —  I'm  satisfied." 

Motier  took  her  face  between  his  hands  and  kissed 
her  until  her  laughing  protests  were  smothered. 

361 


Wallannah 

Then  she  broke  away  from  him.  "You  have 
lowered  your  standing  to  ten  per  cent.,"  she  cried,  from 
a  safe  distance. 

"If  it  works  that  way,"  retorted  Motier,  overtaking 
her  and  securing  her  arm  with  his,  "I  shall  try  to  cut  it 
to  zero." 

Thus  it  was  that  Motier  hummed  gayly-timed 
ballads  as,  an  hour  or  so  later,  he  let  Fleetfoot  find  the 
way  back  to  New  Bern. 

There  was  great  happiness  in  the  days  that 
followed.  Motier  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  Beechwood  ; 
for  feeling  now  that  he  was  preferred  far  above  Lord 
Durham,  he  determined  that  his  Lordship  should  stay 
in  the  background  as  long  as  he  could  keep  him  there. 
Of  Alice's  truth  and  purity  of  purpose  he  had  no 
doubt.  Boggs's  ill-born  chimera  had  been  laughingly 
stowed  away  in  his  hall  of  visionary  relics. 

The  garden  soon  oppressed  this  couple  with  its 
smallness ;  and  they  found  a  leafy  bower,  built  by  the 
sprites  of  the  wood,  where  the  slow-TOing  waters  of  I 
the  Neuse  ebbed  and  rose  again  to  lass  the  grass  and 
flowers  at  their  feet.  Thither  Du  Val  had  brought  one 
day  —  to  Alice's  great  amusement  —  a  woodsman's 
axe ;  and,  with  strong  blows  that  made  the  white  chips 
fall  showering,  had  felled  a  thick  cypress  tree  across 
the  tiny  glade.  This  was  their  pew  in  God's  own 
temple,  where  they  sat  and  listened  to  the  sermons  of 
the  river  and  of  the  wood  and  of  the  birds  that  swept 
over  the  one  and  lingered  hiding  in  the  other.  They 
listened,  moreover,  to  other  sounds;  for  each  said 
much,  and  the  words  they  spoke  were  in  low  tones, 
and  went  side  by  side  with  the  glance  of  the  eve  -^nd 

362 


The  Fortune-Teller  Plays  a  Hand 

the  touch  of  the  hand  that  make  mere  words  seem 
empty  and  meaningless. 

One  morning,  after  a  week  of  cloudless  happiness, 
Motier  and  Alice,  hearing  a  slight  sound  behind  them, 
turned  and  saw  a  stout,  red-faced  woman  enter  their 
bush-girt  bower.  She  wore  a  huge  sun-bonnet,  was 
dressed  in  blue  calico,  and  swayed  as  she  walked. 

"Gentle  folk,"  she  said,  with  an  awkward  curtsey, 
"can  I  tell  yer  fortunes  ?" 

Alice  answered  her.  "My  good  woman,"  she  said, 
with  a  smile,  "there  is  no  need:  we  are  quite 
well  satisfied  with  our  present  ignorance.  But, 
notwithstanding,  you  shall  have  your  penny."  And 
she  held  out  a  small  coin. 

The  woman  gave  a  resolute  shake  of  the  head.  "I 
don't  want  no  money,  purty  one,"  she  said,  drawing 
nearer  to  Alice.  "But  I'd  like  to  tell  yer  fortunes  jes' 
the  same :  thar  ain't  no  harm  in  it ;  not  a  bit.  I  like 
yer  sweet  face,  missis;  an'  p'r'aps  I  mought  do  you 
some  good.  Lemme  see  yer  han' :  'twon't  do  you  no 
hurt." 

Alice  held  out  her  shapely  hand  and  the  woman 
took  it  in  her  broad,  hard  palm.  "To  gratify  your 
wish,"  she  said,  laughingly,  "here  is  my  hand;  but, 
remember,  good  woman,  the  fortune  must  be  a  bright 


one." 


"Mebbe  not;  but  I'll  tell  it  jes'  the  same.  Well, 
well,  I  never!  See  the  little  lines  a-running'  down 
thar,  an'  all  a-crossin'?  That's  whar  yer  life  has  its 
beginnin'.  An'  thar's  heaps  o'  trebble  thar."  An' 
here  —  poor  gal  1  An'  here  yer  line  o'  life  gits  tangled 
up  'ith  another  what  ain't  your'n;    an'  it  gits  kinder 

363 


Wallannah 

lost.  An'  bless  me !  How  it  shifts  about !  Fer  here 
youVe  come  clean  out  in  the  wrong  place.  Why  you 
ain't  yerself,  missis ;   yer  somebody  else !" 

JMotier  laughed  and  began  chopping  at  the  tree  with 
his  knife ;  but  Alice  paled  a  little  and  shook  her  hand 
impatiently. 

"Go  on !"  the  girl  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"I'm  a  goin'  to,"  replied  the  woman,  slowly  tracing 
the  palm-lines  with  her  rough  finger.  "Smooth  enough 
down  to  here;  but  now  comes  trebble  ag'in.  Purty 
one,  thar's  danger  ahead  o'  you.  I  give  you  plain 
warnin'.  You  love  somebody  as  loves  you ;  an'  he's  all 
right  hisself." 

Motier  looked  sharply  at  the  woman.  But,  meeting 
his  gaze,  she  did  not  waver. 

"But  this  man  ain't  fer  you,"  she  went  on,  "nor  you 
ain't  fer  him.  You  mustn't  marry  him,  missis.  You'd 
better  go  jump  in  the  river  then  to  do  it.  I'm  mons'ous 
sorry;  but  it's  so.  He's  a  dark-haired  man."  She 
turned  toward  Motier.  "Jes'  sich  a  lookin'  one  as  you, 
young  master;  an'  it  may  be  you,  sence  you  two's 
a-settin'  here  so  companion-like  together.  Can't  you 
let  me  see  yer  han',  sir  ?" 

"Not  to-day,"  answered  Motier,  coldly.  "And 
on  general  principles  I  must  advise  you  to  stop 
looking  at  hers.  You  can  do  no  good  with  your 
guess-work." 

Alice  was  looking  fixedly  toward  the  river,  and  her 
eyes  wore  a  look  of  trouble. 

The  fortune-teller  turned  back  to  the  girl.  "I'm 
sorry  ef  I've  hurt  yer  feelin's,  missis,"  she  said,  with 
some  tenderness,  "but  it  couldn't  be  helped.    Think  a 

364 


The  Fortune-Teller  Plays  a  Hand 

bit  on  what  I  said.  "You'd  better  heed  the  warnin'. 
Good  bye  t'  ye  both." 

"Why  do  you  let  this  worry  you,  Alice?"  asked 
Motier,  when  the  woman  had  gone.  "You  surely  give 
no  weight  to  her  words?" 

"Perhaps  not,  Motier;  but  I'm  sorry  she  came 
here." 

"Dismiss  the  thought,"  said  Motier,  "and  remain, 
with  me,  in  the  highlands  of  hope  1" 


305 


Wallannah 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

Unpleasant    Revelations  —  With    a    Few 
Reflections  on  Paternity 

IDING  homeward  nearly  two  hours  later, 
Motier,  meeting  at  a  turning  in  the  road  the 
woman  who  had  told  Alice's  'fortune,' 
reined  in  his  horse. 

"My  good  woman,"  he  said,  bending  over 
Fleetfoot's  neck  and  looking  beneath  the  sun-bonnet, 
"who  paid  you  to  come  to  us  with  your  fortune-telling  ? 
You  had  some  purpose;  for  women  of  your  vocation 
do  not  practice  their  art  for  nothing." 

The  woman  raised  her  face  and  smiled  broadly. 
"An'  you  don't  know  me,  young  master?"  she  asked. 
"I'm  ol'  Peggy  McFaddin,  the  woman  you  fou't  for  on 
the  p'rade  groun'  that  day.  I  never  forgot  yer 
goodness ;  an'  I  ain't  never  goin'  to.  I've  waited  a 
long  time  fer  a  chance  to  do  you  good.  When  I  heerd 
you  was  in  a  dang'rous  place,  I  come  to  see  you,  soon 
as  I  could." 

"And  you  think,  Peggy,  that  you  have  done  me 
good  by  giving  trouble  to  this  young  friend  of  mine." 

The  smile  faded  from  her  lips,  and  tears  came  into 
her  eyes.  "I  tried  moughty  hard  to  do  you  good,  sir, ' 
she  said.  "But,  young  master,  it's  God's  truth,  you 
mustn't  marry  that  'ere  gal.    She's  a  sweet  un;  an'  I 

366 


Unpleasant  Revelations 

reckon  you  love  'er;  as  Bob  sez,  'twould  be  ag'in' 
natur'  ef  you  didn't.  But  still,  you  can't  marry  'er. 
'Twould  make  the  both  o'  you  mis'rable  when  you  come 
to  know  the  hull  thing." 

Motier  crossed  one  knee  over  the  saddle-bow  and 
sitting  side-wise  of  the  horse  regarded  the  old  woman 
with  a  sternness  that  would  have  abashed  a  less  honest 
person.  "Suppose  you  explain  this  remarkable  thing 
to  me,"  he  suggested,  coolly.  "Your  story  interests 
me  through  its  very  absurdity." 

"I  kinder  hoped  what  I  said  this  mornin'  was  goin* 
to  stop  the  match ;  but  young  folk  is  hard  to  convence 
nowadays.    You  mean  you  don't  believe  me  ?" 

"You  have  told  me  nothing  to  be  believed  —  at  least 
nothing  that  I  can  understand.  If  you  are  the  friend 
you  claim  to  be,  tell  me  whv  I  must  not  marry  Miss 
De  Vere?" 

"It's  a  secret  I  said  I  wouldn't  tell.  But  you  helped 
me  in  my  trebble,  an'  I'm  a-goin'  to  help  you  in  your'n. 
To  tell  you  the  fust  thing :  I  nussed  you  when  you  was 
a  babby." 

"You  ?  Have  you  ever  lived  in  France  ?"  Motier's 
question  had  in  it  more  of  sarcasm  than  of  inquiry. 

"No,  master ;  I  ain't  no  outlandisher :  I'm  Car'lina. 
But  I  nussed  you  jes'  the  same." 

Du  Val  swung  back  into  the  saddle.  "You  carry 
your  story  too  far,  my  good  woman,"  he  said,  with  a 
dry  laugh.  "I  was  born  in  France ;  and  if  you  nursed 
me,  it  must  have  been  there.  Step  aside,  please,  and 
give  me  the  road." 

"Jes'  wait  a  bit !  Don't  go  on  so  brash.  You  must 
hear  me." 

367 


Wallannah 

"Well?" 

"When  you  fout  fer  me  that  day,  so  bold  an' 
gentleman-like,  I  seed  a  mark  like  three  cherries  on  yer 
arm  'bove  yer  wris'.  I  knowed  you  from  that;  and 
when  I  seen  them  eyes  o'  your'n,  thar  warn't  no 
mistake.  On  the  other  arm,  jes'  'bove  the  elbow,  you've 
got  a  anchor  'longside  the  letter  M.  Bob  worked  it  in 
ink  afore  he  took  you  off  to  sea.    Ain't  it  thar  ?" 

Motier  had  whitened  a  little,  and  he  restrained 
impatient  Fleetfoot  with  an  iron  hand.  "Yes;  it  is 
there,"  he  said,  in  a  hard,  tense  voice.  "Go  ahead 
with  your  story." 

She  reached  down  to  her  pocket.  "Mayhap  you 
have  seen  the  match  o'  this,"  she  said,  bringing  out  a 
child's  bracelet  with  ruby  settings. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  with  a  strange  look  in  his  eyes. 
"I  had  the  mate  of  it  at  home  —  in  France.  Now,  in 
God's  good  name,  tell  me  what  you  know  of  me." 

"Sence  you  b'lieve  me  now,"  she  said,  dropping  the 
bracelet  back  into  her  pocket,  "I  can  be  the  frien'  you 
need.  The  Lord  knows  you  need  one  bad.  But  I  can't 
tell  you  nothin'  now.  Come  to  my  house  to-morrer, 
'bout  ten  o'clock  —  Bob'll  be  gone  then  —  an'  I'll  tell 
you  all  I  knows.  Cross  over  the  Trent  River,  an'  ride 
down  'bout  two  mile.  Then  ask  fer  McFaddin's  house : 
anybody'll  tell  you  whar  it  is.    Will  you  come,  sure?" 

"If  I  live,  I  will.  But  tell  me  one  thing  before  you 
go.    Why  must  I  keep  from  marrying  Miss  De  Vere  ?" 

"Because  the  gal's  yer  own  sister !" 

The  blow  was  a  stunning  one.  Riding  on  to  New 
Bern,  with  Peggy  McFaddin  far  behind  him  in  the 
road,  Du  Val  felt  that  the  cup  of  bitterness  had  been 

368 


Unpleasant  Revelations 

handed  him  filled  to  overflowing.  Were  these  things 
true,  France  was  not  his  home,  M.  Du  Val  was  not  his 
father,  and  Alice  could  never  be  his  wife.  For  France 
he  cared  but  little,  seeing  that  he  had  been  driven  from 
her  shores ;  but  the  man  he  had  called  father  from  his 
toddling  childhood  ?  and  the  woman  he  loved  as  a  man 
loves  but  once  in  a  life? — these  two  were  all  the  world 
to  him. 

Then,  the  complications  concentrated  into  one ;  for 
each  seemed  to  hinge  upon  the  other.  If  M.  Du  Val 
was  not  his  father,  who  was?  Mr.  De  Vere?  He  was 
Alice's  father,  and  if  he  and  she  were  brother  and 
sister,  must  it  not  be  so?  Yet  how  could  these  two 
people  have  lost  him,  or  having  lost  him,  why  had  they 
spoken  of  Alice  as  the  only  child  that  had  blessed  their 
marriage  ?  These  were  perplexing  questions :  who  am 
I?  and  who  is  my  father?  and  who  is  my  mother? 
and  how  is  Alice  my  sister?  and  what  does  the 
whole  thing  mean?  Conspirators,  Indians  and  love 
affairs  combined  had  never  produced  such  cause  for 
sleeplessness. 

When  Motier  and  Tonta  met  before  breakfast  the 
next  morning,  the  Indian  looked  at  his  master 
with  v/ide-open  eyes,  "Caiheek  sick?"  he  asked, 
wonderingly. 

"Yes,  Tonta ;  sick  as  a  stag  with  an  arrow  through 
the  shoulder.    Find  me  my  pipe  and  some  tobacco." 

But  Tonta  still  looked  at  Motier's  face.  "Brown 
Eyes  come  'g'in  ?"  he  questioned,  acutely. 

"Brown  eyes?  What  the  devil  do  you  know  about 
brown  eyes!" 

Tonta  recoiled  a  little   from  his  master's   scowl. 

369 


Wallannah 

"Know  plenty,"  he  said,  sturdily.  "Know  Caiheek 
Lieuten't  in  Charl'ton." 

"Well,  confound  it!  So  did  I.  Get  me  my  pipe 
and  tobacco:  I  don't  feel  like  talking." 

Tonta  had  never  seen  Motier  in  such  a  frame  of 
mind ;  and  it  troubled  the  boy.  He  brought  the  filled 
pipe  to  Du  Val,  who  had  seated  himself  by  the  window. 

"Bad  Spirit  make  Caiheek  sick,"  he  ventured,  with 
much  trepidation.  "Good  Spirit  cure  Caiheek:  call 
Good  Spirit." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  Motier  was  looking 
at  the  boy  from  beneath  close-drawn  eyebrows. 

"Mean  what  say.  Caiheek  call  Good  Spirit.  Good 
Spirit  save  Caiheek  at  Yaunocca  —  make  him  cure 
now." 

Motier  lit  his  pipe,  and  looked  reflectively  at  the 
smoke  which  wound  in  a  blue  spiral  from  the  stone 
bowl.  His  face  cleared  a  little  as  he  thought.  "Weil, 
Tonta,  you  beat  me,"  he  said,  at  the  end  of  a  lengthy 
pause.    "You  can  preach  better  than  you  can  practice,' 

"Caiheek  call  Good  Spirit?"  he  persisted,  still 
looking  into  Motier's  haggard  face. 

"I  will  see,  Tonta,"  answered  the  master.  Go 
down  now,  and  see  that  Fleetfoot  is  fed." 

After  the  Indian  had  left,  Motier  sat  for  a  long 
time  smoking  and  looking  down  at  the  floor.  When  the 
pipe  had  gone  out,  he  leaned  forward  with  his  elbows 
on  his  knees  and  with  his  hands  hanging  listlessly 
below.  The  pipe  which  he  held  in  the  grasp  of  his 
fingers  rested  with  its  bowl  upon  the  floor.  After  a 
time  he  began  muttering  something  in  a  lov/  tone, 
mechanically  tapping  the  while  with  the  carved  calumet 

370 


Unpleasant  Revelations 

upon  the  bare  floor.  When  he  straightened  np,  his 
jaws  were  firmly  set,  and  his  expression  calm. 

"Any  one  who  takes  that  Indian  for  a  fool  misses 
by  a  full  mile,"  he  said;  and  something  like  a  ray  of 
cheerfulness  crossed  his  clear-cut  features. 

Motier  found  the  McFaddin  house  with  but  little 
difficulty.  Peggy,  arrayed  in  her  best,  awaited  him; 
and  'Bob'  was  not  there.  When  they  had  seated 
themselves  the  old  woman  opened  the  conversation. 

"I  tell  you,  young  master,"  she  said,  with  a  twinkle 
in  her  eyes,  "when  Bob  took  you  out  o'  this  here  door 
years  an'  years  agone,  my  ol'  eyes  never  did  hope  fer 
the  sight  o'  you  ag'in.  Bob  hed  to  take  you  to  furrin 
lan's  to  save  yer  little  life ;  fer  them  as  ought  to  took 
keer  o'  you,  went  ag'n'  natur'  and  was  yer  wust 
enemies.  But  Bob  an'  me  carcumvented  'em  —  that 
is  him ;  fer  thar  warn't  but  one  we  was  afeerd  of.  But, 
Massy  on  us !  How  things  is  turned  about !  Here  you 
be  ag'in,  a  fine  growed-up  man  as  is  able  to  stand  fer 
yer  own  rights !  You'll  git  yer  rights,  too.  Mark  my 
words:  the  finger  o'  God  is  in  this  'ere  thing:  he's 
a-helpin'  you  now,  or  you  couldn't  'a'  stood  it  so  well." 

"I  agree  with  you,  Peggy,"  answered  Motier. 
"Now,  tell  me  what  you  can  of  my  history.  I'm  rather 
eager  to  know  the  truth." 

"I  knows  you  must  be  that,  young  master.  An'  I'll 
be  as  short  as  I  can,  fearin'  somebody  mought  come  in." 

Peggy's  story  was,  in  effect,  that  Motier  had  been 
stolen  from  his  mother  many  years  before  by  an  Indian 
woman  who  lived  about  the  white  settlements. 
McFaddin  chancing  to  meet  the  squaw,  had  so  alarmed 
her  that  she  dropped  the  infant  in  the  road  and  made 

271 


Wallannah 

her  escape.  There  Bob  picked  up  the  child  and  brought 
it  home  to  Peggy.  On  the  baby's  arm  was  a  mark,  a 
red  blotch,  like  in  form  to  three  clustered  cherries  with 
tiny  scarlet  lines  for  the  stems.  She  was  very 
circumstantial  in  her  account  of  the  visit  of  a  certain 
well-known  man  to  their  house  a  few  days  after  Bob 
had  found  the  child,  and  she  narrated  with  great 
fidelity  the  incidents  of  the  offering  of  the  medicine, 
and  the  poisoning  and  the  burial  of  Bowzer,  the  dog. 
But  Peggy  refused  flatly  to  divulge  the  name  of  this 
visitor.  "That  mought  git  Bob  into  trebble,"  sha 
insisted,  "an'  I  couldn't  tell  it  'less  Bob  said  so.  P'r'aps 
ef  you  ask  him,  he'll  tell  you." 

"But  suppose  he  won't  tell,"  remarked  Motier. 
"Then  what?" 

"I  reckon  he  will  tell.  I'll  make  him  do  it.  You've 
got  a  right  to  know,  seein'  the  man's  yer  own  father. 
It  wouldn't  be  nat'ral  fer  to  keep  it  from  you." 

Motier  looked  thoughtfully  out  of  the  window ;  but 
his  features  gave  little  sign  of  the  tumult  that  raged 
within.  "You  think  that  this  ma  —  this  fellow  was  my 
father  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  constrained  voice. 

"So  Bob  found  out,"  answered  Peggy,  her  eyes 
flooding  with  tears.  "But,  young  m.aster,  don't  fret 
yerself  no  more  'n  you  can  help.  It  warn't  no  fault  o' 
your'n;  an'  p'r'aps  after  all  the  man  warn't  so  bad. 
He  may  have  made  a  mistake  'bout  the  p'ison.  Folks 
sez  he's  a  good  man;  an'  I  hope  fer  yer  own  sake 
he  is." 

"Well,  tell  me  the  rest  of  it,"  he  said,  wearily.  "It's 
not  a  pleasant  story;  but  I  guess  it  means  something 
to  me." 

372 


Unpleasant  Revelations 

"Well,  long  after  Bob  took  you  to  the  furrin  lan's," 
she  continued,  "we  found  out  yer  mother  was  the  good 
missis,  Mary  Ross." 

Motier  started.  "Mary  Ross?"  he  said,  stupefied. 
"You  don't  mean  the  De  Vere's  friend  ?" 

"She's  jes'  the  one,  sir.  Her  husban'  run  ofif  an' 
lef  her  with  two  childer  —  you  an'  Miss  Alice.  Then 
he  married  some  other  woman.  Miss  Mary  reckoned 
f er  a  long  time  as  her  husband  war  dead ;  but  she  was 
a-hopin'  an'  a-hopin'  all  the  time  to  find  the  Injun  gal 
what  stole  her  babby  boy.  Miss  Mary  was  that  proud 
she  wouldn't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  her  husban'  when 
she  foun'  him ;  an'  she  ain't  been  to  see  'im  sence, 
neither.  So,  after  a  long  time,  when  Miss  Mary  made 
up  her  min'  the  boy  was  dead  (we  couldn't  tell  her 
nothin'  you  see,  'cause  we  never  knowed  whar  the  boy 
was  after  Bob  lef  him  in  the  furrin  country)  after  she 
reckoned  the  boy  was  dead,  an'  havin'  nothin'  to  keep 
her  from  starvin',  she  let  the  little  gal  be  'dopted  by 
Madam  De  Vere  an'  her  husban',  who  didn't  have  no 
chick  ner  child  o'  their  own.  All  that  she  asked  was  to 
be  'lowed  to  live  with  the  gal  as  her  gov'ness." 

Motier  listened  to  this  recital  with  a  composure  that 
brought  wonder  to  Peggy's  simple  heart.  But  his 
feelings  were  playing  havoc  with  his  nerves. 

"You  make  out  a  bad  case  for  this  'good  man,*  as 
you  called  the  scoundrel  you  think  is  my  father,  but, 
thank  God !  I'm  not  ashamed  of  the  one  you  think  my 
mother." 

"'  Shamed  o'  her !  Lordy,  boy !  She's  a  true 
woman,  an'  a  lady  borned  an'  bred." 

"She  doesn't  know  that  I'm  alive,  then?" 

373 


Wallannah 

"Not  as  we  knows  on." 

"Who  was  the  Indian  woman  who  is  thought  to 
have  stolen  me  ?" 

"I  ain't  got  much  use  fer  Injuns,  you  see;  an'  I 
don't  know  none  of  'em  —  praised  be  God!  But  I've 
heerd  this  one  was  Seeky  or  Cheeky,  or  some  sich 
name." 

"H'm !    I  half  knew  it :  Sequa,  you  mean." 

"You  knowed  her?" 

"I  met  her  once  —  a  very  handsome  woman." 

"Awful  bad  an'  shameless  lookin',  I'm  a-thinkin'; 
but  you  see,  I  don't  keer  much  fer  Injuns." 

And  these  were  the  things  that  Motier  Du  Val,  or 
whosoever  he  might  be,  learned  concerning  himself 
from  the  Hps  of  Peggy  McFaddin.  The  situation  was 
a  little  clearer.  Accepting  as  true  all  that  Peggy  had 
told  him  —  and,  M.  Du  Val  being  in  mid-ocean,  Motier 
had  no  other  source  of  information  than  the  sailor's 
wife  —  he  knew  who  his  mother  was;  but  his  father? 
Motier  felt  something  akin  to  bloodthirstiness  at  the 
thought.  The  man  must  needs  be  a  betrayer  or  a 
bigamist,  perhaps  the  principal  in  Sequa's  kidnapping 
venture,  undoubtedly  a  would-be  child-poisoner,  and 
certainly  a  hypocrite  of  deepest  dye.  And  this  was  his 
father?  Faugh!  the  word  father,  applied  to  such  a 
Thing,  tasted  badly  in  the  mouth. 

Motier  contrasted  this  type  of  creature  with  the 
high-minded,  noble-hearted  man  whom  he  had  called 
father  until  now,  and  whom  he  would  still  call  father 
until  M.  Du  Val  with  his  ovv^n  lips  disclaimed  the  tie. 
Never  had  man  been  kinder  to  a  son  than  had  this  one 
been  to  Motier ;  wealth  and  position,  love  and  fatherly 

374 


Unpleasant  Revelations 

protection,  and  a  perfect  sympathy  in  all  things :  these 
were  what  M.  Du  Val  had  given  to  him. 

And  that  other  man!  What  was  his  heritage?  A 
clouded  birthright,  a  name  that  stood  for  dishonor  and 
unmeasured  deceit,  and  the  mark  of  Cain  upon  that 
paternal  brow. 

Then  Mary  Ross,  his  mother?  His  heart  warmed 
toward  her ;  but  yet  not  as  a  son's  toward  his  mother. 
Time  alone  could  bring  that  affection.  She  had  been 
terribly  wronged ;  and  his  first  act  would  be  to  seek  an 
interview  with  her,  and  learn  his  father's  name.  After 
that  would  come  the  righting  of  the  wrongs.  He 
turned  Fleetfoot's  head  toward  Beechwood.  Then  he 
remembered  Peggy's  words  and  feared  that  undue 
haste  might  involve  the  good  woman  and  her  husband 
in  deep  trouble.  He  decided,  rather  reluctantly,  to 
defer  his  talk  with  Mary  Ross  until  after  his  interview 
with  McFaddin. 

Stopping  at  the  inn  he  wrote  a  note  to  the  sailor, 
and  dispatched  it  post-haste  by  Tonta.  This  was  to 
keep  Peggy  from  the  wrath  v;hich  might  fall  upon  her 
should  her  husband  learn  that  she  had  divulged  the  one 
great  secret  of  their  lives. 

When  Tonta  had  clattered  down  the  road  on  his 
speckled  pony,  Motier  came  down  again  to  the  stable 
yard;  and,  swinging  into  the  saddle,  he  turned 
Fleetfoot's  head  again  toward  Beechwood.  For  he 
would  risk  yet  another  talk  with  Alice  before  that  which 
stood  between  them  became  known.  As  he  saw  the 
grey  gables  in  the  distance,  and  traced  the  outlines  of 
the  trees  that  overhung  the  garden,  he  saw  again  the 
girl  in  white,  and  feit  the  touch  of  her  lips  on  his, 

375 


Wallannah 

Alice !  Alice !  The  name  came  to  his  Hps  on  the  tide 
of  a  half -choked  sob,  and  he  felt  that  nothing  was  left 
in  the  world  but  misery. 

Arriving  at  Beechwood,  Motier,  meeting  the 
footman  and  receiving  the  assurance  that  Alice  was 
alone  in  the  parlor,  strode  down  the  hall  to  the 
half-opened  door. 

"Alice!"  he  called,  softly,  as  he  thrust  his  head 
through  the  opening  and  glanced  about  the  dimly 
lighted  room. 

The  sound  of  voices  came  from  the  corner  by  the 
harpsichord.  Motier  turned  and  looked.  Alice,  fairer 
than  ever,  stood  there;  but  Lord  Durham  was  with 
her.  More  than  that,  his  arms  were  about  her,  and 
their  lips  were  met  in  a  kiss.  In  that  moment  Alice 
caught  sight  of  Motier's  face,  and  gave  a  startled  cry ; 
but  he  shut  the  door  behind  him,  and  hastily  leaving 
the  house  rode  back  to  New  Bern. 

"Boggs  was  right,"  he  growled,  as  Fleetfoot 
galloped  down  the  road.  "Durham  has  the  lucky  dice. 
I  wish  him  joy."  But  in  his  heart  was  the  longing  love 
for  Alice  —  Alice  as  he  had  thought  her  in  the  other 
days. 

Motier  went  to  his  room  at  the  inn,  and  wrote  a 
hurried  letter.    He  worded  it  thus : 

"Dear  AHce :  I  have  made  an  unfortunate  discovery 
which  so  alters  our  relations  that  the  recollection  of  our 
past  happiness  is  embittered.  It  seems  that  the 
fortune-teller  spoke  better  than  we  knew.  I  shall 
always  regard  you  with  such  love  as  a  man  can  give  a 
sister,  but  the  warmer  attachment  seems  ill-advised  at 
present.    For  a  while,  farewell.      Motier  Du  Val/'- 

376 


Unpleasant  Revelations 

"There!"  he  said,  as  he  folded  the  sheet.  "If  she 
can  find  what  that  means,  she'll  know  more  than  I  do. 
I  can  read  it  two  ways ;  she  may  read  it  a  hundred." 
He  rang  for  Tonta. 

"Tonta,"  he  said,  when  the  boy  appeared,  "take  that 
letter  to  j\Iiss  De  Vere." 

"Want  go  fast?"  asked  the  Indian,  taking  the  note 
from  the  table. 

"Take  as  long  as  you  please  —  all  the  afternoon  if 
you  wish." 

Tonta's  eyes  opened.  Hitherto  his  missions  to 
Beechwood  had  been  with  orders  to  "ride  like  thunder." 

"But  Caiheek  want  answer  ?"  he  suggested. 

"Not  one  word  !  If  you  bring  back  an  answer,  boy, 
I'll — "  He  shook  his  pipe  in  Tonta's  wondering 
face  —  "I'll  dig  out  your  heart  and  feed  it  to  the 
landlord's  dogs!  Take  this  shilling,  and  buy  yourself 
poor." 

When  Motier  was  alone  he  stood  up  with  a  great 
yawn,  and  walked  to  the  window, 

"Were  I  not  a  fool,"  he  reflected,  staring  through 
the  grimy  pane,  "I  Avould  cut  loose  from  North 
Carolina,  and  from  all  of  the  good  people  who  are 
mixing  my  affairs,  and  would  keep  father  —  that  is, 
Monsieur  Du  Val  —  in  France  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 
Then  we  might  live  as  we  have  always  lived:  father 
and  son,  son  and  father,  with  none  to  molest  us. 
Hanged  if  I  don't  think  I'll  do  it!  But  —  no;  that 
would  be  the  act  of  a  coward.  The  situation  is  here: 
here  will  I  face  it." 

A  sudden  thought  came  to  him:  "If  women 
swarmed  about  my  cradle  as  they  do  around  other 

377 


Wallannah 

babies,"  he  reflected,  "some  one  in  this  little  town  must 
be  familiar  with  the  mark  on  my  arm  —  the  three  red 
cherries.    Question:  who  can  that  person  be?" 

Then  he  looked  down  at  Ocebee's  brother's  pipe. 
"That's  a  curious  looking  snake  the  heathen  carved  on 
that  bowl,"  he  mused.  "If  a  serpent  typifies  the  devil, 
his  Majesty  must  be  a  joyful  fellow ;  for  the  Cherokee 
has  carved  him  with  a  grin  on  his  face." 


378 


Murder 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

Murder 

ONTA  found  McFaddin  at  home  with  his 
wife  and  handed  him  the  note. 

"A  letter  fer  me!"  exclaimed  the  sailor. 
"Be  n't  you  oft*  yer  course,  boy?    I  never 
got  no  letter  in  my  life." 

"Him  for  you  —  Caiheek  send  him,"  replied  Tonta. 

"Blast  my  peepers!"  said  Bob,  turning  the  paper 
about  in  his  hands.  "I  can't  make  nothin'  out  'n  these 
here  fish-hooks.    Peg,  ol'  gal,  read  it  fer  me." 

Peggy  adjusted  her  spectacles.  "  'Mr.  McFaddin : 
My  good  friend' — "  she  started. 

"Mister,  eh?  Well,  that's  polite.  An'  I  reckon 
I'm  his  good  frien'  too.  It's  him  what  tackled  Jake 
Cantwell,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes,  it's  him ;  an'  you  know  him  besides,  too." 

"Well,  pay  out  some  more  of  it." 

"  'Dear  Mr.  McFaddin'—" 

"You  read  that  wunst." 

"I'm  a-startin'  from  the  fust  —  it's  easier.  'Dear 
Mr.  McFaddin'—" 

"That's  three  times.  Fer  Gawd's  sake  read  the 
letter !" 

"I'm  a-readin'  it  the  bes'  I  can;  but  yer  so 
interrupshus." 

379 


Wallannah 

"Ain't  you  never  goin'  to  swing  cl'ar?  Too  much 
foolin'  with  yer  anchor,  Peggy.  Haul  in  yer  bow-Hnes." 

"  'Dear  Mr.  McFad  — " 

"  'Dear  Mr.'  dev  —  But  go  on,  Peggy.  I  ax  yer 
parding." 

"  'My  good  friend :  you  told  me  once  that  you  felt 
under  obligations  to  me' — " 

"I  did,  Peggy;  an'  so  did  vou.  I  don't  forgit :  go 
on." 

"'I  have  a  great  favor  to  ask  of  you  —  one  that 
none  else  can  grant  me' — " 

"Hoi'  hard,  thar,  Peggy !  Lemme  see  that."  He 
took  the  paper  and  scanned  it  curiously. 

"I  don't  see  it,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"You  got  it  wrong  side  upwards,  Bob ;  but  I  s'pose 
it's  all  the  same  to  you." 

"I  tell  5^ou,  Peg,  edication's  powerful!  That  'ere 
thing  looks  like  shoal  water  to  me.  I  can't  make 
nothin'  out'n  it :  steer  me  out  yerself." 

"  'Please  meet  me  to-night  under  the  big  maple  by 
the  river,  below  'Squire  Cantwell's.  -  H  you  come  in 
your  boat,  that  place  will  suit  you  best.  A  good  time 
would  be  about  moonrise.  I  will  be  there  at  that  hour ; 
and  if  you  micet  me,  you  will  greatly  oblige,  Motier 
Du  Val.' " 

Peggy  folded  up  the  note.  "He's  heard  somethin* 
'bout  hisself ;  an'  he's  foun'  out  you  knows." 

"Reckon  so,  Peggy?" 

"Sartin." 

"An' what  must  I  do?" 

"Go  an'  see  'im,  Bob ;  an'  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 
The  boy's  got  a  right  to  know;   an'  you  said  yerself, 

380 


Murder 

it's  ag'in'  natur*  thet  he  shouldn't.  He's  smart  enough 
to  fin'  it  out  hisself ;  but  yer  an  hones'  man,  an'  you 
owe  it  to  'im  to  tell  'im.  Remember,  Bob,  he  fou't  fer 
us ;  an'  you  promised." 

"I'll  go,  Peggy.  Here  you  Injun!  What's  yer 
name?  Tawnter?  Well,  Tawnter,  tell  him  I'll  be 
than" 

Tonta  swung  into  the  saddle  and  galloped  off. 
When  he  had  gone  McFaddin  turned  back  to  Peggy. 

"I've  got  to  see  the  'Squire  anyhow.  One  trip'U  do 
fer  the  both.    He's  been  at  me  ag'in  to-day." 

"What's  he  want  now  ?" 

"Wants  us  to  go  on  another  cruise." 

"Wharto?" 

"Anywhar  to  git  cl'ar  of  us.  But  he'll  have  to  come 
down  han'some.  We're  a-ridin'  easy  here;  an'  we 
can't  cut  cl'ar  our  moorin's  jes'  to  'bleege  the  'Squire. 
'Twould  be  ag'in  natur'  to  go  fer  nuthin'." 

In  the  meantime  Tonta,  hurrying  back  to  New 
Bern,  met  Sequa  by  the  shores  of  the  Trent.  The 
woman  seemed  to  feel  a  great  anxiety  for  the  safety 
of  Tonta's  Caiheek ;  and  she  extorted  from  the  boy  all 
the  knowledge  which  he  had  gained  at  the  McFaddin 
house.  Then  her  dark  eyes  glowed,  and  her  lithe  figure 
trembled  as  she  told  the  boy  that  she  would  go  to  the 
maple  tree  at  moonrise  and  would  hear  what  passed 
between  Motier  and  the  sailor. 

McFaddin  announced  about  dusk  that  it  was  time 
for  him  to  start  for  Nev/  Bern. 

Peggy,  brushing  off  his  coat,  began  giving  advice 
to  her  liege-lord.  "Bob,  I've  been  a-thinkin'  'twould 
be  better  fer  you  to  keep  off  from  the  'Squire  to-night. 

381 


Wallannah 

I've  got  some  notion  meetin'  him  won't  be  good  fer 
you  :   he's  too  tricky.    Did  you  promise  'im  pos'tive  ?" 

"No,  not  pos'tive;  but  I  said  I'd  come  ef  I 
could." 

"Then  you  can't,  Bob ;  an'  that  means  you  mustn't. 
He'd  turn  you  off  yer  duty.  Promise  me  you'll  go 
straight  to  the  boy." 

"I  answered  the  gentleman  I  would,  didn't  I  ?  No 
'Squire  can't  keep  me  from  it." 

"But  don't  risk  'im,  Bob.  Hev  I  ever  tol'  you 
nothin'  that  warn't  fer  yer  own  good?" 

"Never,  ol'  woman:  true  es  a  compass." 

"Then  promise  me.  Bob." 

"Sartin  sure.    Give  us  a  kiss,  ol'  gal." 

"Good  bye,  Bob !" 

"Good  bye?  Why  not  good  ev'nin'?  I  ain't  goin' 
fer  good." 

"I  feel  kinder  queer  'bout  yer  goin',  Bob,  but  I 
reckon  it's  all  right." 

"Don't  bother  yer  head,  Peggy,"  he  shouted,  as  he 
started  up  the  road,  "they  can't  cut  my  riggin'." 

Reaching  New  Bern  and  moving  toward  his 
rendezvous,  McFaddin  saw  the  light  from  Cantwell's 
window  shining  bright  and  clear  across  the  front  lawn. 
He  felt  tempted  to  go  in,  thinking  the  'Squire  might 
speak  of  something  to  his  advantage.  But  remembering 
his  promise  to  Peggy  he  passed  by  the  house.  Then  he 
slowed  down  in  his  walk  and  looked  back  over  his 
shoulder.  He  fancied  he  saw  Cantwell  moving  about 
in  his  parlor.  McFaddin  stopped  short.  "What  harm 
can  thar  be  in  findin'  what  the  'Squire  vv^ants  to  see  me 
fer  ?"  he  muttered.    "  'Twon't  do  no  hurt,  an'  Peggy'll 

382 


Murder 

never  know  it.  He  can't  turn  me  from  doin'  the  squar' 
thing  by  the  boy."  And  he  retraced  his  steps  and  went 
to  Cantwell's  house. 

'Squire  Cantwell,  smooth-shaven  and  ministerial, 
sat  within  his  sanctum. 

"If  I  could  be  sure  now  of  McFaddin,"  he  was 
thinking,  "all  would  go  well;  for  with  Mary's  pride 
and  generosity,  and  with  McFaddin's  mouth  shut,  I 
can  defy  Fawn  —  the  villian !  the  cormorant !  He 
would  feed  on  my  very  bones  I  And  he  was  my  friend 
once !    Damn  such  people !" 

A  knock  sounded  on  the  door. 

"Come  in !"  called  Cantwell. 

Bob  McFaddin  entered,  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  by 
the  door. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  McFaddin,"  said  the  'Squire. 
"I've  just  been  thinking  of  you.  But  why  so  late?  I 
expected  you  much  sooner." 

"I  had  to  steddy  over  the  situat'on,  yer  Honor," 
replied  the  sailor. 

Cantwell  gave  him  a  swift  glance.  "Ah,  yes !  I 
have  studied  it  too,  McFaddin.  I've  been  thinking  that 
you  and  Peggy  are  getting  along  in  years ;  and  I 
believe  it  my  duty  to  provide  for  you  —  you've  been  in 
my  service  so  long.  My  agent  in  Habana  writes  me 
that  Americans  all  do  well  in  that  city.  What  do  you 
say  to  a  snug  little  store  there?  I'm  willing  to  start 
you  on  two  hundred  pounds.    Will  you  go  ?" 

McFadden  looked  carelessly  about  at  the  mottoes 
on  the  wall.  "Thankee,  yer  honor!"  he  answered, 
dryly.  "That  looks  like  cl'ar  sailin' ;  but  I  think  I'll 
ship  in  another  craft." 

383 


Wallannah 

Cantwell  frowned.  "What!  Leave  me?  Where 
would  you  go  ?" 

"To  them  as  might  pay  better,"  was  the  easy 
response.  "Not  to  say  two  hundred  pounds  ain't 
han'some  either ;  but  the  fac'  is,  money  ain't  the  pay  I 
wants :  I  wants  a  quiet  conscience.  Can  you  give  me 
that  ?  or  ain't  you  got  none  to  spar'  ?" 

The  'Squire  bit  his  Hp  and  looked  angrily  across 
the  table.  "What  are  you  talking  about?"  he  asked, 
frigidly. 

"Nuthin'  much.  But  I'm  goin'  to  clean  out.  The 
boy  we  hurried  is  come  to  life  ag'in ;  an'  I  don't  keer 
to  get  jerked  up  fer  babby-stealin'." 

"I  know  all  that,"  said  Cantwell,  testily.  "It's  this 
young  fellow  Du  Val.  Now  tell  me  what  you  know. 
You  see  you  can't  deceive  me.  I  know  all  about  the 
dog  you  'jacked  up'  in  a  coffin  and  called  Mary  Ross's 
baby." 

For  a  moment  the  'Squire  seemed  the  master  of  the 
situation ;  but  the  sailor  rallied  his  forces. 

"If  you  know  the  hull  thing,  yer  Honor,"  he 
laughed,  "you  don't  need  nothin'  from  me.  But  you 
don't  know :  yer  only  guessin'.  You  can't  weather  the 
storm  that-a-way.  Too  much  sail  fer  the  wind,  master. 
Jes'  double-reef  yer  mains'il,  an'  take  the  bonnet 
off'n  yer  jib.  Come  down  easy;  an'  p'r'aps  I'll  tell 
you." 

"Can't  you  talk  English?" 

"Good  enough  English  for  you  to  understand,"  he 
bantered.  "Now,  here's  fer  the  hull  bus'ness!"  And 
he  told  Cantwell  all  that  he  knew,  and  all  that  he  had 
planned. 

384 


Murder 

When  McFaddin  concluded  his  observations,  the 
'Squire  brought  his  fist  down  upon  his  desk  with  a 
thump  that  jarred  his  Bible  to  the  floor.  "McFaddin, 
you're  a  scoundrel!"  he  shouted,  turning  very  red  in 
the  face. 

"  'Bleeged  fer  the  compliment,  yer  Honor.  I'm 
a-goin'  now.  But,  if  you  can  read  —  bein'  's  we  was 
frien's  so  long  —  this  here  paper  shows  what  I'm 
a-goin'  fer."  And  he  handed  Motier's  note  to  the 
'Squire. 

Cantwell  read  the  letter  and  saw  that  his  fancied 
security  was  slipping  through  his  fingers.  The 
proposed  interview  would  ruin  him.  He  handed  the 
paper  back  to  the  sailor. 

"McFaddin !" 

"Yer  Honor!" 

"Listen  now,  and  don't  be  a  fool.  Suppose  you 
tell  this  story  to  the  boy  ?  What  good  will  it  do  him  ? 
As  the  son  of  M.  Du  Val  he  is  rich  and  happy.  Would 
you  make  his  condition  better?  or  worse?  Don't  you 
know  it  would  be  worse  ?" 

The  sailor  scratched  his  head.  "P'r'aps  it  would," 
he  said,  doubtfully. 

"The  way  to  get  a  good  conscience  is  to  do  good, 
isn't  it?" 

"Sartin." 

"Do  good  then.  Do  as  you  would  be  done  by. 
That's  the  Golden  Rule,  McFaddin ;  and  that's  my  rule. 
Others  can't  always  see  it  —  as  in  the  present  case,  for 
instance.  But  the  Christian's  path  is  a  thorny  one: 
our  feet  may  bleed  in  following  it.  But,  my  friend, 
we  have  our  reward ;  if  not  in  this  world,  then  in  the 

385 


Wallannah 

hereafter.  And  there's  happiness,  too :  there's  always 
happiness  in  doing  right." 

"You  talks  like  a  preacher,  yer  Honor." 

"Ah,  no !  I  am  not  worthy  to  be  called  a  preacher. 
I  am  only  a  poor  sinful  man."  The  'Squire's  voice  was 
softened  v/ith  sublime  humility.  "I  do  many  things  I 
ought  not  to  do;  but  we  are  all  erring,  benighted 
mortals.  We  can  only  try  to  do  our  duty :  I  try  to  do 
mine ;  and  I  want  to  do  my  duty  by  you  in  this  matter." 
He  paused  for  a  reply ;  but  the  sailor  was  looking  down 
at  the  floor.  "I  will  do  this  duty  if  you  will  let  me," 
he  continued.  "And  I  must  be  quick,  for  the  hour  of 
your  appointment  is  almost  at  hand  " 

"Yes ;  it's  nigh  'bout  time." 

"Tell  me  now,  upon  your  word:  does  any  one 
besides  you  know  about  this  boy  ?" 

"None  but  Peggy." 

"What  does  she  know?" 

"Not  much  —  'cept  'bout  the  dog.  I  held  back 
the  partic'lar  bus'ness  'cause,  you  know,  v/omen's 
women." 

"Does  she  know  that  young  Du  Val  is  the  child 
you  carried  to  France?" 

"How  could  she?"  he  answered,  quickly,  evading 
the  point  for  Peggy's  sake.  "I  never  foun'  it  out  myself 
till  I  met  the  old  Frenchman  on  the  street  a  month  or 
so  back." 

"But  didn't  you  tell  Peggy?"  The  'Squire's  voice 
was  sharp  and  quick. 

"Not  on  yer  Hfe !"  came  out  McFadden's  lie.  "Take 
me  fer  a  damned  fool!" 

The  'Squire  looked  at  him  as  a  shrewd  man  looks 

386 


Murder 

upon  one  who  is  without  guile.  He  rubbed  his  hands 
together  and  smiled. 

"The  coast  is  clear,  then,"  he  said.  "Now, 
McFaddin,  here  is  my  proposition.  Meet  your  man 
and  put  him  on  the  wrong  track.  As  a  reward  I  will 
send  you  and  Peggy  to  Habana,  or  wherever  else  you 
please,  with  five  hundred  pounds.  That  is  more  than 
you  could  make  in  twenty  years'  hard  work.  It  would 
make  you  comfortable,  McFaddin;  and  at  the  same 
time  it  would  be  doing  the  right  thing  by  the 
Frenchman." 

The  sailor's  eyes  sparkled.  The  temptation  was 
beyond  his  resistance.  "But  you  mought  back  out," 
he  ventured  to  say. 

"You  can  have  the  money  now." 

"An'  you'll  trus'  me  to  tell  'im  right?" 

"Honest  men  "are  not  suspicious,  McFaddin:  I  will 
trust  you."  Then  a  sinister  gleam  shot  from  the 
'Squire's  eye.  "But,"  he  added,  "I  must  know  just 
what  you  say,  and  what  he  says.  This  I  must  know 
to  steer  my  own  course  clear.  I  will  go  with  you  and 
hide  in  the  bushes  behind  the  maple.  We  have  just 
half  an  hour  to  moonrise.  Speak  quick !  Will  you  put 
him  off  on  some  other  man?" 

"I'll  do  it  —  'twould  be  ag'in  natur'  to  say  no  —  so 
git  out  the  articles.  But  mebbe  you'd  as  lief  pay  me 
some  money  down,  an'  the  rest  in  a  bank  dockyment." 

"Very  well,  if  it  suits  you  that  way." 

So  McFaddin  was  enriched  by  a  Bank  of  England 
note  of  one  hundred  pounds,  and  by  a  paper  which  the 
'Squire  said  was  a  draft  for  four  hundred  more. 

Then  they  made  ready  to  go  to  the  maple  by  the 


Wallannah 

river.  While  McFaddin  scrutinized  the  picture  of 
Ananias  and  Sapphira,  Cantwell  took  a  queerly-shaped 
dagger  from  a  desk  drawer  and  shpped  it  into  the  inner 
pocket  of  his  coat. 

They  went  together  into  the  night.  Approaching 
the  last  cross-street  before  the  woods,  they  saw  a 
watchman  slowly  walking  toward  them. 

The  'Squire  drew  Bob  back  against  a  high  fence. 
"Let's  wait  until  that  fellow  turns  the  corner,"  he 
whispered.    "He  might  follow  and  spy  upon  us." 

The  regular  tramp,  tramp,  tramp  grew  fainter  until 
it  died  out  in  the  distance. 

"We  can  go  now,"  laughed  Cantwell.  "The  rocks 
are  out  of  our  course." 

"Be  you  cold,  yer  Honor?"  asked  McFaddin, 
turning  quickly  toward  his  companion.  "Teeth's 
a-chatterin'." 

"A  little  chilly,  but  not  cold,"  was  the  answer. 

"I  fin'  it  bracin',"  said  McFaddin,  throwing  out  his 
great  chest.  "Fac'  is,  I  feels  uncommon  strong 
to-night,  anyhow.  A  rig'lar  nor'wester  wouldn't  shake 
me.  It's  all  in  a  man's  sperrits,  yer  Honor.  I've  had 
a  gusty  v'yage  in  life,  but  its  all  clear  now  fer  me  an' 
Peggy." 

"Down  yonder  in  Habana  you'll  have  a  good  time, 
I  guess,"  remarked  Cantwell. 

"Ef  I  don't  go  somewhars  else.  Thar's  plenty  o' 
waters  to  cruise  in." 

"But  you  won't  come  back  here?" 

"No,  unless— " 

"Unless  nothing !    You  must  never  come  back." 

"My  kin  folks  is  all  here ;  an'  Peggy's,  too." 

388 


Murder 

"You  can  get  along  without  them.  You  must  swear 
to  me  that  you'll  never  come  back." 

"Can't  swar  to  nuthin'  like  that,  yer  Honor.  I 
mought  be  driv'  in  by  a  storm." 

"That  won't  do."  The  'Squire's  face  whitened,  and 
his  hand  stole  into  the  bosom  of  his  coat.  "The  path 
is  narrow  here,''  he  said,  falling  a  step  behind  the 
sailor.  "We  must  take  it  single-file.  Walk  ahead,  my 
friend :  I'll  follow." 

They  passed  into  the  darkness  of  the  wood,  the 
good,  pious  'Squire  and  the  sturdy,  unsuspecting 
seaman. 

A  moment  later  Cantwell  returned  alone,  and 
quickly  reached  the  street  along  which  the  watchman 
had  passed.  The  man  was  there  again,  approaching  at 
a  distance  of  a  hundred  yards.  Just  then  the  moon 
struggled  through  the  mist  that  lay  low  and  heavy  in 
the  east.  Its  light  fell  upon  the  white  face  of  John 
Cantwell,  and  it  fell  also  upon  his  hand,  where  glistened 
a  tiny  drop  of  blood.  The  'Squire  hastily  wiped  off  the 
blot. 

Suddenly  from  the  path  behind  him  came  a  loud 
cry.    "Hoi'  Watch!    Help!" 

The  watchman  sounded  his  rattle;  another  rushed 
out  from  a  side-street,  and  the  two  ran  forward 
together.  Drawing  nearer  to  Cantwell  the  first  called 
out :  "Run  down,  Hans,  and  see  what's  to  pay.  I  must 
see  who  this  is."    He  approached  Cantwell. 

"Ah!  It's  you, 'Squire?" 

"Yes,"  answered^  Cantwell,  steadily.  "I  heard  a 
noise  like  a  struggle  down  there,  and  I  came  out  from 
the  house  to  see  what  it  was." 

389 


Wallannah 

"I  thought  I  saw  you  come  the  other  way." 

"You  did.  I  had  crossed  the  road;  but  finding 
everything  quiet  I  had  started  back,  when  I  heard  that 
cry.  Hurry  down  there!  Some  one  seems  in 
trouble." 

A  third  watchman  came  running  toward  them. 
"Where's  the  row?"  he  called  to  the  man  who  was  just 
leaving  Cantwell. 

"Down  the  path  by  the  river,"  answered  the  other. 
Then,  saluting  Cantwell  with  a  touch  of  the  cap, 
"Ev'ning,  'Squire!" 

"Good  evening,  sir.  If  you  find  anything,  and  need 
me,  I'll  be  in  my  office." 

Returning  to  his  home,  the  first  care  of  the  worthy 
'Squire  was  to  give  attention  to  his  toilet.  He  expected 
company ;  and  a  disordered  apparel  would  not  comport 
with  the  dignity  of  his  office  as  magistrate.  So  he 
examined  his  sleeves,  his  vest,  and  his  coat,  and  looked 
well  at  his  knee-breeches  and  his  silk  hose.  After  this 
he  polished  his  shoes  and  washed  his  hands  —  Justice 
is  always  white-handed  —  afterv;ard  combing  his  hair 
and  smoothing  each  strand  into  its  wonted  place.  After 
thus  preparing  himself,  he  sat  down  to  await  his 
visitors. 

A  few  minutes  later,  with  much  confusion  and 
stamping  of  feet  came  the  three  watchmen,  leading 
IMotier  Du  Val,  calm  and  unresisting,  into  the  presence 
of  the  honorable  magistrate  to  answer  for  the  murder 
of  Robert  McFaddin. 

"My  poor,  honest  mate!"  exclaimed  the  'Squire, 
when  the  watchmen  had  told  their  story.  "You  don't 
say   that  he   is  murdered  I     He   was   with  me   only 

390 


Murder 

to-night,  in  the  vigor  of  health  and  manhood.  Then 
it  was  his  voice  which  cried  for  help?" 

Motier's  head  was  held  very  high,  and  his  eyes 
gleamed.  "You  are  in  error,"  he  said,  coldly.  "It  was 
my  voice  you  heard.  I  found  the  man  dying  in  the 
path  ;  and  I  called  the  watch." 

"That's  won't  do,  young  man,"  was  the  grufif  retort 
of  the  chief-watchman.  "It  was  the  sailor's  voice. 
And  who  was  a-hurtin'  you?  what  should  you  want 
help  for?  No,  no;  that's  a  good  dodge,  but  it  don't 
go  here." 

"Are  you  the  magistrate?"  asked  Motier,  glancing 
down  at  the  pufifed-up  man. 

"No;  but—" 

"Silence,  gentlemen,"  requested  Cantwell,  with 
dignity.  "The  prisoner  is  entitled  to  a  fair  examination. 
But  let  us  have  everything  in  order.  Now,  Mr. 
Clincher,  make  your  report  in  writing.  Here  are  pen 
and  paper.     Sit  down." 

The  evidence  was  conclusive  enough.  McFaddin 
had  been  found  with  two  wounds  —  one  in  the  back, 
the  other  in  the  breast.  The  external  shape  of  both  of 
these  stab-marks  was  that  of  a  cross.  In  the  prisoner's 
possession  was  found  a  dagger  of  the  form  necessary 
to  have  made  such  a  wound.  Cantwell's  astonishment 
was  genuine.  He  could  in  no  way  account  for  Du  Val's 
ownership  of  such  a  dagger.  But  those  who  watched 
thought  that  his  surprise  came  from  the  shock  of  the 
knovrledge  of  Du  Val's  guilt. 

"I  regret,  Mr.  Du  Val,"  the  'Squire  observed, 
looking  into  Motier's  unmoved  face,  "I  regret  that  I 
must  keep  you  in  custody  to-night.    The  law,  you  see 

391 


Wallannah 

is  rigid."  Cantwell  bent  forward,  with  his  elbows  on 
his  desk.  "It  is  a  sad  thing,  young  man,"  he  said, 
with  a  kindly  ring  in  his  voice,  "to  see  one  of  your 
promise  so  early  in  the  path  of  crime.  I  recommend 
to  your  prayerful  consideration  the  pious  maxim, 
'Remember  now  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy 
youth.'  " 

"Spare  your  sermon,"  retorted  Du  Val ;  then  with 
biting  sarcasm.    "Do  your  duty  only  —  if  you  know  it." 

"I  think  I  know  it,"  returned  the  'Squire,  sharply. 

Cantwell  wrote  two  brief  notes.  "Mr.  Clincher," 
he  said,  "hand  this  note  to  your  captain.  This  other 
is  your  order  for  the  close  confinement  of  the  prisoner. 
Good  night,  gentlemen !    Good  night,  M.  Du  Val !" 

The  next  day  the  prisoner  was  committed,  without 
bail,  to  await  the  convening  of  the  superior  court. 


392 


627  Jeremiah  Lane 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

627  Jeremiah  Lane 

U  VAL  had  been  three  days  in  iron-chained 
durance  before  anything  occurred  to  vary 
the  monotony  of  his  imprisonment.  The 
hours  and  the  days  went  by  with  no  signal 
from  the  outside  world;  with  nothing  to  tell  him  of 
what  took  place  in  the  streets  beyond  his  prison  walls. 
Now  and  then,  at  long,  irregular  intervals,  came  the 
striking  of  a  bell,  or  a  rising  in  the  town's  dull  murmur, 
or  the  sound  of  a  loud  voice  near  his  window.  And 
he  knew  that  the  sun  had  risen  thrice  and  had  set 
twice.  This  knowledge  came  from  the  brightening  and 
the  fading  of  the  patch  of  sky  which  showed  through 
the  tiny  grated  window  high  up  in  his  cell  wall. 
Compared  with  this  later  experience,  his  captivity  in 
the  Cherokee  village  had  been  pleasant ;  and  he  had 
wished  many  times  for  the  rattle  of  the  medicine-man's 
chinchone  to  aid  him  in  measuring  the  passing  time. 

On  one  of  these  days  Motier  had  heard  the  tolling 
of  the  bell  which  marked  the  hour  of  !McFaddin's 
funeral.  The  sound  was  not  a  cheerful  one ;  for 
Peggy  had  been  his  friend,  and  on  her  account  he 
regretted  the  sailor's  death.  But  he  wondered  if  she 
believed  the  watchmen's  story. 

The  evidence,  as  Motier  heard  it  at  the  inquest,  was 

393 


Wallannah 

damning'.  In  all  that  the  witnesses  told  there  were  but 
three  kernels  of  truth:  but  those  three!  Motier 
shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  thought  of  them.  He 
had  been  found  with  blood  upon  his  hands,  and  bending 
over  the  body  of  a  man  who  had  been  killed  by  just 
such  a  dagger  as  the  one  which  had  been  found  in 
his  possession;  and  m  McFaddin's  pocket  was  the 
Frenchman's  letter  arranging  the  meeting  of  the  two 
on  that  very  spot  and  at  that  precise  time.  What  would 
a  jury  do  with  these  facts?  Assuredly  the  case  had  a 
black  look. 

It  had  taken  Motier  but  a  few  moments  to  decide 
who  had  killed  McFaddin.  The  fact  that  the  dead 
-  man's  wounds  had  been  made  by  a  dagger  like  his  own, 
pointed  conclusively  to  one  man.  That  man  was  the 
father  of  the  one  who  had  dropped  the  poniard  on  the 
day  that  he  fired  upon  Du  Val  in  the  forest.  Alotier 
remembered  the  thought  which  had  come  to  him  when 
he  took  the  oddly-shaped  dagger  from  Tonta  and 
dropped  it  into  his  satchel :  'T  wonder  if  the  other  one 
will  ever  turn  up."  And,  verily,  it  had  —  in  most 
unpleasant  manner.  He  had  carried  its  mate  on  the 
night  of  McFaddin's  death,  and  on  many  previous 
occasions,  as  all  men  in  that  country  at  that  time  bore 
some  weapon  of  defense.  In  this  instance,  however, 
the  dagger  had  become  an  instrument  of  offense,  and 
that  without  any  man's  design. 

Little  of  comfort  came  to  Mouers  mind  in  those 
days.  A  week  earlier  his  thoughts  of  Alice  would  have 
served  him  as  well  as  they  had  among  Ocebee's  people ; 
but  now  even  that  was  taken  from  him.  The  Alice  of 
the   present  brought   reflections   that   were   gall   and 

394 


627  Jeremiah  Lane 

wormwood  to  him :  the  AHce  of  the  past  filled  his  heart 
with  an  unutterable  longing,  and  he  strove  hard  to  keep 
that  memory  from  the  sullying  touch  of  her  later 
faithlessness.  Fair  and  radiant,  with  the  glory  of  the 
sun  in  her  golden  hair,  and  with  heaven's  own  blue  in 
her  eyes,  he  saw  her  a  thousand  times  a  day ;  and  when 
the  picture  came  to  him,  he  would  bend  his  forehead 
to  his  knees,  and  with  the  cold  iron  of  his  chains 
pressing  against  his  face,  would  think  and  wonder : 
"Does  she  care  ?"  And  he  could  see  her  face  and  hear 
her  voice  as  the  ansv/er  would  return :  "Must  I  tell  you 
that  I  do  care?"  Then  the  image  would  fade  away, 
and  the  light  would  go  out  of  the  world ;  and  Motier 
would  reach  out  his  arms  with  the  clanking  of  chains 
and  would  cry  from  the  depths  of  his  heart,  "O  God ! 
Take  anything  else ;  but  give  her  unto  me !" 

On  the  third  day  Motier  evolved  an  idea  concerning 
the  identity  of  his  father,  and  his  mind  was  working 
swiftly  through  a  tangled  maze  of  fact  and  theory. 
Then  it  was  that  a  measure  of  relief  came  to  him ;  for, 
though  he  knew  it  not,  the  De  Veres  and  Boggs  and 
Durham  had  v/orked  with  tireless  energy  for  his  release 
under  bond,  and,  failing  in  that,  for  the  betterment  of 
his  condition.  In  the  latter  effort  they  succeeded  and, 
at  the  moment  when  Motier  had  all  but  solved  the 
problem  of  his  parentage,  the  jailer  brought  in  a 
blacksmith  and  relieved  him  of  his  irons.  Then,  when 
he  had  straightened  out  his  stiffened  limbs,  and  had 
learned  to  walk  v^rithout  his  weight  of  chain,  Motier 
was  taken  to  an  upper  room,  bright  with  sunshine  and 
comfortable  in  its  furnishings. 

In  this  room,  within  an  hour  after  his  removal, 

395 


Wallannah 

Metier  resumed  his  work  upon  the  problem.  He  was 
interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  'Squire  Cantwell. 

Du  Val  arose  and  looked  his  visitor  in  the  face 
until  the  eyes  of  the  magistrate  sought  the  floor. 

"You  honor  me,  monsieur,"  said  Motier,  with 
extravagant  politeness,  "pray  take  my  chair,  and  tell 
me  why  you  grace  my  cell  with  your  presence." 

Cantwell,  flushing  a  little,  took  the  proffered  seat. 
Motier  saw  that  he  labored  under  excitement. 

"Mr.  Du  Val,  circumstances  have  come  to  my 
knowledge,"  began  the  'Squire,  with  a  forced  benign 
smile,  "which  induce  me  to  believe  you  innocent, 
notwithstanding  the  weight  of  the  evidence  against 
you.  These  circumstances,  however,  would  hardly 
admit  of  proof  in  a  court  of  justice;  and  I  cannot, 
therefore,  give  you  legal  aid.  But,  as  I  committed  you, 
and  as  the  matter  has  been  a  great  deal  on  my  mind,  I 
wish  to  help  you  by  the  only  means  within  my 
power." 

Motier,  seeing  nothing  to  be  gained  by  kicking  the 
'Squire  from  the  room,  affected  a  diplomatic 
composure.  "You  are  kind,  Mr.  Cantv;ell,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "It  will  please  me  to  meet  you  on  any 
reasonable  suggestion  you  may  make.  Your  plan, 
sir?" 

Cantwell  smiled  benevolently.  "It  is  simply  this," 
he  said,  lowering  his  voice  to  a  whisper.  "I  can 
manage  your  escape  from  prison,  and  send  you  off  on 
my  vessel,  the  Leopard,  to  France,  where  you  will  be 
safe.  Giving  you  your  freedom  in  this  manner,  I  make 
but  one  condition." 

"And  that  condition  ?"  asked  Du  Val  coldly. 

396 


627  Jeremiah  Lane 

"That  you  promise  never  to  return.  For  if  you 
came  back  to  New  Bern,  however  late  the  day,  it  might 
Jead  to  an  exposure  of  my  part  in  your  escape." 

A  faint  smile  played  about  Motier's  lips.  "Again 
let  me  say  that  you  are  kind,  Mr.  Cantwell.  Your 
proposition  is  a  generous  one;  but,  with  your  single 
condition,  its  acceptance  by  me  is  impossible." 

Cantwell  started  with  surprise.  "But  why  not?"  he 
queried,  with  an  angry  look  in  his  eyes.  "You  know 
that  if  you  stand  your  trial  you  must  be  condemned 
and  hanged." 

"Oh,  yes;  I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  Motier 
answered,  carelessly.  "The  testimony  of  the  watchmen 
is  largely  stupid  invention;  and  the  dagger  seems  to 
have  fitted  the  wounds  quite  well,  considering  that 
those  wounds  were  made  by  another  weapon.  I  will 
be  condemned,  no  doubt ;  and  then  they  will  hang  me. 
It  will  all  be  in  God's  own  time.  I  will  say,  however, 
that  were  the  doors  of  the  prison  open  now,  I  would 
walk  out;  but  it  would  be  with  the  settled  purpose 
of  coming  back  again  when  my  friends  learned  whose 
dagger  is  the  mate  to  mine ;  for  when  they  know  that 
they  will  know  who  killed  Bob  McFaddin !" 

Cantwell  quailed  under  the  eyes  of  the  prisoner; 
but  he  maintained  a  wonderful  composure.  "Well," 
he  said,  with  some  asperity,  "my  skirts  are  clear.  If 
you  are  hanged  it  is  your  own  fault." 

"In  a  measure,  sir;  but  primarily  some  one  else's 
fault.  I  cannot  consent,  however,  to  live  with  the  stain 
of  murder  on  my  name  when  I  know  that  it  belongs 
somewhere  else ;  and,  more  than  that,  when  I  know  on 
whose  name  it  does  belong." 

397 


Wallannah 

The  'Squire  turned  abruptly  away,  "You  will  not 
repeat  this  offer  of  mine?"  he  asked,  as  he  walked 
toward  the  door. 

"No." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  for  you.  I've  done  all  I  can.  Good 
morning,  sir!" 

"Good  morning !" 

After  Cantwell  had  left  the  cell  Motler  walked  to 
the  barred  window  and  stood  looking  reflectively 
toward  the  wall  of  the  adjacent  building.  He  had  come 
as  near  as  was  prudent  to  facing  Cantwell  with  his 
accusation.  Had  not  the  proofs  been  in  Cantwell's 
own  hands,  he  would  have  dared  more.  Then,  too,  his 
present  comforts  meant  something  to  him;  and  an 
open  breach  with  the  'Squire  might  send  him  back  to 
the  down-stairs  cell. 

While  pondering  upon  these  matters  he  heard 
through  a  broken  window-pane  two  voices  from  the 
nearby  street.    One  he  recognized  in  its  first  word. 

"Good  morning,  Simon  1"  it  said,  in  well-modulated 
tones.  "It  seems  strange  to  see  you  walking  about  the 
streets.  The  store  usually  buries  you  from  human 
gaze." 

The  other  voice  was  full  and  round,  and  Motier 
knew  it  to  be  Fawn's.  "My  good  friend,"  was  the 
answer.  "I  was  going  to  your  house.  But  how  came 
you  in  the  jail?" 

"It's  a  sad  thing,  my  dear  Simon.  I've  been  trying 
to  impress  some  spiritual  truths  upon  that  graceless 
young  Du  Val;  but  he  gives  no  heed  to  the  blessed 
Word.  He's  a  bad  character,  Simon,  a  very  hardened 
young  wretch." 

398 


627  Jeremiah  Lane 

''Well,  he  ought  to  be,"  was  the  quick  retort, 
"seeing  he's  your  own  — " 

"H'sh !"  warned  Cantwell.    "He  may  hear  you." 

"Why,  doesn't  he  know  ?" 

The  answer  was  inaudible,  and  the  rest  of  the 
conversation  was  lost  as  the  two  men  passed  up  the 
street. 

Motier's  face  was  a  little  pale  as  he  sat  down,  raised 
his  legs  to  the  table  and  filled  and  lit  the  corn-cob  pipe 
which  some  one's  influence  had  procured  for  him, 

"Fawn  saved  me  further  work  on  my  problem,"  he 
mused,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "But  the  result  confirms 
my  theories.  So  Cantwell,  who  preaches  layman's 
sermons  on  Christianity,  and  who  has  the  honor  of 
being  an  abductor,  a  poisoner,  a  murderer,  and  several 
other  kinds  of  nice  fellow,  is  my  father !  Therefore,  I 
did  spill  my  own  brother's  blood  by  the  pool  of 
Yaunocca.  Cain  and  Abel,  wath  an  Eve  who  mistook 
the  devil  for  her  Adam !  Truly,  a  delightful  situation !" 
And  as  he  reflected  upon  it  he  threw  back  his  head  and 
sent  a  twisting  smoke-ring  up  toward  the  ceiling.  "I 
think,"  he  muttered,  "that  England's  greatest  poet 
wrote :  'The  miserable  have  no  other  medicine,  but  only 
hope.'  That  goes  to  prove  that  Monsieur  William 
Shakespeare  never  tried  to  find  a  dose  of  his  own 
prescription  within  the  walls  of  the  New  Bern 
jail."  / 

Three  days  more  went  by,  on  the  first  of  whichV 
Motier  was  given  books  to  read  and  paper  on  which  to 
write.     He  noticed,  however,  that  everything  which 
came  to  him  was  carefully  examined,  lest  it  might 
contain  a  deadly  weapon,  or  some  instrument  to  aid 

399 


Wallannah 

in  his  escape.  This  scrutiny  amused  Motier,  and 
it  also  revived  the  thought,  first  suggested  in 
impracticable  form  by  Cantwell,  of  ending  his  captivity 
by  some  other  means  than  that  of  being  tried  and 
hung. 

He  walked  about  his  cell  many  hours  in  each  day, 
trying  to  devise  the  means  by  which  he  might  free 
himself,  yet  balking  his  every  plan  by  asking  himself 
the  one  question:  "What  would  my  guards  be  doing 
all  this  time?"  He  rather  fancied  that  they  would  be 
pounding  him  upon  the  head  with  clubs,  and  shooting 
at  him  with  blunderbusses ;  so  all  his  projects  dissolved 
into  thin  air. 

On  the  sixth  day  of  his  imprisonment  the  jailer 
brought  him  a  pocket  Bible,  handsomely  bound,  and 
fastened  with  a  gold  clasp.  Motier  sat  in  his  chair 
with  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  turned  the  book  over 
and  over  in  his  hands;  for  the  binder's  workmanship 
had  made  it  a  volume  of  rare  beauty,  and  as  such  it 
pleased  him. 

"Who  brought  this?"  he  asked,  turning  toward  the 
door. 

But  the  jailer  was  gone,  and  the  door  was  barred. 

Holding  his  head  to  one  side  to  clear  his  eyes  from 
the  cloud  of  smoke  which  had  just  escaped  his  lips, 
Motier  unfastened  the  clasp  and  opened  the  Bible.  He 
turned  back  to  the  fly-leaf. 

There,  in  exquisitely  formed  letters,  was  the  name 
Lucille  Creighton  Ashburne. 

Motier  gave  a  little  gasp ;  and  his  pipe,  half  slipping 
from  his  teeth,  showered  burning  tobacco  down  his 
waistcoat  front. 

400 


627  Jeremiah  Lane 

"Lucille!"  he  muttered,  brushing  the  sparks  from 
his  clothing,  "at  this  time,  of  all  times  I"  And 
bewildered  he  stared  at  the  name  upon  the  page. 

"The  serpent  on  Ocebee's  brother's  pipe  couldn't 
smile  at  this,"  he  said,  at  last,  laying  down  the  book 
and  refilling  his  corn-cob.  "There's  something  vast 
and  mysterious  about  the  whole  thing." 

Lighting  the  tobacco,  he  threw  his  tinder-box  on 
the  table.  Then,  puffing  up  his  pipe,  he  again  picked 
up  the  book.  After  staring  for  several  minutes  more 
at  Jack's  widow's  name,  he  turned  over  the  page. 

"H'm !  the  plot  thickens !  Here  she  is  again  —  but 
different.  'Lucille  Creighton,  627  Jeremiah  Lane, 
Norwich,  England.'  Curious!  Norwich  is  all  right; 
and  so  is  England.  But  Jeremiah  Lane!  The  worlcj 
never  heard  of  that."  But  there  stood  the  line:  627 
Jeremiah  Lane.  Motier  was  perplexed.  But,  smoking 
furiously,  he  began  to  make  deductions.  Lucille  was 
once  more  in  New  Bern :  else  how  came  the  book  to 
him?  But  was  her  mind  deranged?  'Jeremiah  Lane' 
certainly  seemed  an  indication  of  raving  idiocy,  yet 
the  inscription  was  clear  and  beautifully  penned,  while 
the  writing  of  lunatics  frequently  degenerates  with 
their  minds.  Then,  if  the  woman  was  sane,  what 
meant  627  Jeremiah  Lane  ? 

Motier,  with  a  growl  of  disgust,  started  on  a  new 
train  of  argument.  With  Lucille  in  New  Bern,  and 
sane,  and  trying  to  help  him,  was  she  just  the  one  to 
send  him  a  Bible  ?  Piety  she  had  not,  and  why  should 
her  thoughts  turn  to  giving  spiritual  aid  to  other 
people,  when  she  had  never  sought  it  herself  ?  Lucille's 
talents  were  intensely  practical;   her  mind  was  quick 

401 


Wallannah 

and  acute;  her  powers  of  intrigue  were  unsurpassed: 
what  then  lay  behind  627  Jeremiah  Lane  ? 

Motier  reflected.  Jeremiah?  He  knew  no  man  of 
that  name :  nor  had  he  ever  heard  of  a  city,  or  a  ship, 
or  a  horse,  or  a  book  —  But  stay !  yes ;  a  book ! 

He  hurriedly  ran  through  the  pages  of  the  Bible, 
past  the  Proverbs,  past  Ecclesiastes,  past  the  Song  of 
Solomon,  over  the  pages  of  Isaiah,  to  the  Book  of  the 
Prophet  Jeremiah. 

Here  was  the  Jeremiah :  what  was  the  627  ? 

Laying  his  pipe  upon  the  table,  he  bent  over  the 
book.  "Jsrs'^^i^h'  six  twenty-seven,"  he  whispered,  his 
hand  trembling  as  he  turned  the  leaves.  "J^^^^iiah, 
three ;  Jeremiah,  five  —  and  six.  Now,  verse  nine  — 
eighteen  —  twenty-seven."  He  read  the  verse  through : 

''I  have  set  thee  for  a  tower  and  a  fortress  among 
thy  people,  that  thou  mayest  know  and  try  their 
way." 

Motier  shook  his  head.  "Clear  enough,  no  doubt ; 
but  how  does  it  fit  my  case?  'That  thou  mayest  know 
and  try  their  way !'  Whose  way?  'Squire  Cantweil's 
way  ?  God  help  me,  no !  Or  Lord  Durham's  ?  Bah ! 
Or  Lucille's?  Had  the  chance  once,  and  refused  it. 
Or  my  own?  I  couldn't  if  I  would.  Well;  there's  a 
misfit  somewhere." 

He  looked  thoughtfully  down  at  the  book.  The 
paper  was  slightly  rumpled.  He  ran  his  fingers  across 
the  page  to  smooth  it  down.  A  quick  light  leaped  to 
his  eyes.  Again  he  passed  his  finger-tips  up  and  down 
over  the  words  of  the  prophet,  and  his  lips  formed  in 
a  smile. 

Bending  down  until  his  eyes  were  close  to  the  book 

402 


627  Jeremiah  Lane 

he  scanned  it  eagerly.  Here  and  there  about  the  page, 
without  apparent  rule  or  order,  were  tiny  punctures  in 
the  paper.  He  counted  them.  There  were  thirty-eight ; 
and  each  of  them  was  in  the  centre  of  a  printed  letter. 
The  first  pin-hole  was  in  the  second  word  of  the 
twenty-seventh  verse  of  Jeremiah  vi. :  and  that 
accounted  for  627  Jeremiah  Lane.  The  last  puncture 
was  beyond  the  middle  of  the  fifth  verse  of  the  next 
chaDter. 

''Good  for  Lucille !"  he  murmured.  "Now  let's  get 
the  pin-stabbed  letters  in  their  order." 

A  brief  silence  followed. 

''H'm!  'Assistant  —  jailer!'  Didn't  know  there 
was  any." 

Another  silence,  while  Motier's  eyes  crept  down 
the  page. 

"  'Your  —  friend.'  Thank  heaven  I've  got  one ! 
'Assistant  jailer  your  friend.'  Yes;  I  expect  I'll  find 
him  a  very  congenial  fellow." 

A  longer  silence.  Then  Motier  began  spelling,  one 
letter  at  a  time. 

" 'E-s-c-a-p-e  —  t-o  — '  To  what?  Ah!  'to-night!' 
And  that  checks  off  all  the  pin-holes.  Lucille,  I  don't 
love  you  much ;  but  I  swear  you're  a  wonder !  But 
how  are  you  going  to  work  it  ?  Escape  ?  and  to-night  ? 
My  dear  girl  — " 

Motier  stared  at  the  wall ;  and  the  smile  faded  from 
his  lips.  "The  assistant  jailer,"  he  muttered,  softly. 
"When  he  enters  the  scene,  something  may  happen  to 
him.    But  how  ?  and  what  ?" 

The  hours  passed,  and  the  afternoon  grew  late. 
Motier  sat  in  his  chair,  and  now  and  then  "to-night" 

403 


Wallannah 

would  come  to  his  lips;  and  he  would  smile,  for  he 
knew  that,  somewhere  upon  the  broad  Atlantic, 
To-night  on  wings  of  sable  was  sweeping 
Carolina-ward. 

Twilight  came,  and  still  the  gruff  voice  of  the  jailer 
sounded  in  the  corridor.  Motier  lit  his  candle,  and 
began  reading  the  rest  of  the  book  of  the  Prophet 
Jeremiah. 

Eight  o'clock  —  nine  o'clock  —  ten  o'clock  —  yet 
the  assistant  jailer  had  not  come. 

Suddenly  Motier  started.  The  sound  of  a  slipping 
bolt  grated  on  his  ears.  A  mouse,  like  a  tiny  ball  of 
grey  fur,  scurried  across  the  cell  floor.  Then  the  door 
opened  with  rasping  hinges.  A  keen-eyed  man, 
enveloped  in  a  long  cloak  and  wearing  a  broad  slouched 
hat,  stepped  upon  the  threshold. 

Motier  half  arose  from  his  chair.  The  man  turned 
on  his  heel  and  leaned  lazily  against  the  door-jamb,  his 
back  toward  the  prisoner.  Du  Val  felt  the  cool  night 
breeze  on  his  face,  and  knew  that  the  outer  doors  were 
open.  He  crept,  half  crouching,  toward  the  man.  The 
assistant  jailer  stood  as  motionless  as  a  statue. 

With  a  tigerish  spring  Motier  was  upon  the  man, 
and  had  him  down  on  the  corridor  floor. 

Half  stunned  though  he  was,  the  fellow  looked  up 
with  a  short  laugh.  "Howlin'  Whales  !  Don't  bust  out 
my  brains !"  he  growled.  "Lemme  up,  an'  take  my  hat 
an'  coat  an'  run  like  the  devil !" 

Du  Val  gasped  with  astonishment.  Then  he  pulled 
the  man  up;  and,  holding  him  with  one  hand  by  the 
slack  of  his  under  coat,  he  pulled  off  the  cloak  and  the 
hat,  and  threw  them  into  place  on  himself. 

404 


627  Jeremiah  Lane 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked,  as  he  loosened  his  grip 
on  the  man. 

"Don't  you  keer  who  I  am.  Skin  up  the  street  like 
you  was  a  musket-ball ;  an'  when  you  meets  anybody 
say,  'What  o'clock  is  it?'  The  first  man  what  sez, 
'Deep  in  the  night,'  is  yer  friend.  Now,  fer  Gawd's 
sake !  cut  out  an'  run  fer  yer  neck !  Screechin'  Crabs ! 
never  mind  me!    Run!" 

And  Motier  ran. 

When  the  prisoner  had  gone,  the  assistant  jailer 
pinched  his  arms  and  felt  nervously  about  his  ribs. 
"They  calls  that  'ere  feller  a  Frencher,"  he  mumbled, 
with  a  broad  smile.  "Perhaps  he  is  one ;  but  French 
or  Car'lina,  he  durned  near  smashed  me  to  glory."  And 
the  Man  who  sat  on  the  Barrel  in  Fawn's  store  locked 
the  empty  cell,  blew  out  the  lights,  slammed  the  outer 
doors  behind  him  and  darted  down  toward  the  river. 

Motier  walked  rapidly  up  the  street.  A  block 
beyond  the  jail  he  met  a  man  staggering  toward  him. 

"What  o'clock  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"Shoo !  Shink  you  shteal  m'  watch,  donsher  ?  Try 
s'mother  feller,  an'  leave  me  'lone !"  And  with  a  hoarse 
guffaw  the  inebriate  made  a  wide  veer  and  crashed 
cursing  into  the  fence. 

Motier,  laughing  under  his  breath,  went  swiftly 
onward.    A  second  man  met  him  further  up  the  street. 

"What  o'clock  is  it?"  asked  Motier. 

"Something  near  eleven,"  was  the  answer. 

"Thanks!    Goodnight!" 

Close  at  this  man's  heels  came  another. 

"What  o'clock  is  it?" 

"Deep  in  the  night !" 

405 


Wallannah 

Motier  drew  a  long  breath.  "And  shoaling  off 
toward  morning,"  he  laughed, 

"Keep  your  mouth  shut !" 

"Did  you  say  'please  ?'  " 

The  man  laughed ;  and,  linking  his  arm  in  Motier's, 
led  him  on  to  the  confines  of  the  town.  There  he 
stopped  and  turned.  Motier  tried  to  see  his  face  by 
the  starlight, 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  the  man  asked,  in  familiar 
accents, 

"Captain  Maynard  —  again !" 

"Luckily,  yes." 

"God  is  good," 

"You  ought  to  think  so  by  this  time," 

A  few  minutes  later  the  heads  of  five  horses  were 
turned  southward,  entering  into  the  forest  that  lay 
between  them  and  Charleston.  Tonta  led  the  way; 
next  came  Captain  Maynard,  and  Mr,  Hadleigh 
Creighton,  of  Norwich,  England,  and,  after  them  all, 
Motier  Du  Val,  and  Lucille  Creighton  of  627  Jeremiah 
Lane. 

The  last  two  rode  with  horses  close  together,  and 
the  sound  of  their  voices  was  low  and  earnest.  But  the 
wind  in  the  pines  seemed  to  bear  on  its  breath,  "Motier ! 
Alotier!"  and  he  turned  in  his  saddle,  and  looked 
back  through  the  darkness  toward  the  gardens  at 
Beechwood ;  and  as  he  looked  into  the  gloom  the  voice 
in  his  heart  cried  "Alice !  Alice !  God  keep  her  safe." 


406 


"To  My  Mother— God  Bless  Her!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"To  My  Mother  — God  Bless  Her!" 

HE  authorities  sought  long  and  fruitlessly 
for  Motier  Du  Val.  Likewise,  and  vainly, 
did  they  search  for  the  person  who  had 
drugged  the  jailer  and  the  guards,  and  who 
had  released  the  Frenchman  from  the  prison ;  but  not 
a  clue  could  be  found. 

A  year  after  Du  Val's  escape,  Captain  Maynard 
(whose  pardon  had  been  granted  by  Tryon's  successor, 
Governor  Martin,  after  strenuous  effort  on  the  part  of 
Lord  Durham)  brought  his  wife  from  the  caverns  of 
Yaunocca,  and  reestablished  their  home  in  New  Bern 
in  a  house  patterned  after  that  which  had  burned  nearly 
nineteen  years  before,  and  standing  upon  the  same 
ground.  Airs.  Maynard,  amid  familiar  surroundings 
and  under  the  constant  care  of  Doctor  Boggs  and  his 
colleague,  Doctor  Gaston,  improved  beyond  all 
expectation;  and  after  two  or  three  years  of  this  life 
her  mind  v/as  as  clear  and  as  active  as  it  had  ever  been. 
Tonta  was  in  Captain  Maynard's  service ;  and  the 
boy's  closest  companion  was  Brown,  the  gardener,  a 
keen-eyed  man  who  spoke  with  a  lazy  drawl. 

Mr.  De  Vere,  weakened  by  a  pulmonary  trouble  of 
many  years'  standing,  had  died  a  few  months  after 
Motier  last  saw  him;    and  three  years  later  —  as  is 

407 


Wallannah 

often  the  way  with  handsome  widows  —  Madame 
De  Vere  gave  her  hand  in  marriage  to  Lord  Durham. 

Five  years  passed  by  —  the  greatest  years  in 
American  history.  Lexington  and  Concord  and 
Bunker  Hill  had  roared  their  shotted  thunder  against 
the  hosts  of  King  George ;  the  North  CaroUnians  had 
Voiced  their  patriotic  sentiments  in  the  Mecklenburg 
Declaration  of  Independence;  the  Liberty  Bell  had 
pealed  out  the  death  of  tyranny;  and  Washington, 
with  the  Continental  armies  at  his  back,  was  waging 
iron-handed  war  against  the  country's  foemen.  Then 
came  the  battle  of  Moore's  Creek  Bridge,  at  that  time 
the  greatest  of  North  Carolina  victories;  and  in  that 
fight  were  men  whose  names  stand  high  on  the  roll  of 
American  patriots. 

There,  fighting  under  Lillington  and  Caswell,  was 
a  stranger  whose  fame  went  throughout  the  Carolinas 
with  the  news  of  the  fight.  At  first  none  knew  who 
the  man  was.  Then  the  wounded  came  home.  Among 
them  was  Jemmie  Dow,  who  years  before  had  helped 
in  the  vain  search  for  Mary  Ross's  child.  And  Jemmie 
told  the  whole  story : 

"I  was  cleanin'  the  colonel's  mare  at  six  o'clock 
one  mornin',"  he  said  to  a  group  of  friends  at  his 
bedside,  "when  I  heard  a  horse  comin'  down  the  road 
like  thunder.  Jim  Maxton  was  doin'  sentry  duty,  an' 
Jim  he  sez,  'Halt!'  an'  the  feller  kept  on  comin'.  I 
looked  up  thinkin'  to  see  Jim  perforate  Mister  Man 
right  there.  But  Jim  he  yells  again,  'Halt,  or  I'll 
shoot!'  Then  the  man  pulled  in  his  horse  a  little  an' 
smiled  at  Jim.  Jim  sez  'Good  Gawd !'  an'  let  the  feller 
pass  him.    Sez  I  to  myself,  this  must  be  Washin'ton  or 

408 


"To  My  Mother— God  Bless  Her!" 

some  other  big  gun;  but  fearin'  mistakes  I  takes  a 
pistol  and  goes  out  to  have  my  say  at  the  feller.  I 
hadn't  no  more'n  got  to  the  road  when  he  come  by  like  a 
cannon-ball.  'Who's  there?'  I  yells.  'Look  out!'  he 
sez;  an'  he  was  gone  afore  I  could  pull  a  trigger. 
Thinkin'  thet  this  wasn't  right  I  ran  to  the  Colonel's 
tent.  An'  there  was  the  feller's  grey  horse  standin' 
outside,  an'  in  the  tent  the  Colonel  was  shakin'  the 
feller's  hand.  An'  who  d'you  s'pose  he  was?  That 
'ere  Du  Val  what  they  sez  killed  Bob  McFaddin." 

A  murmur  of  astonishment  came  from  his  auditors. 

"Yes,  it  was  him,"  repeated  Jemmie,  vehemently. 
"An'  he  stuck  by  us  through  it  all,  too.  I  never  seen 
such  a  man.  If  ever  anybody  played  in  luck  Du  Val 
v/as  that  feller.  If  some  crazy  red-coat  tried  to  capture 
our  regiment  all  by  hisself,  Du  Val  was  the  feller  that 
caught  the  blasted  Britisher  and  toted  him  into  camp 
on  his  shoulder  like  a  meal  bag.  One  night  a  company 
of  'em  rushed  our  pickets  an'  nigh  scared  us  to  death ; 
an'  what  did  Du  Val  do  but  jump  on  his  horse  an'  yell, 
'Come  on  boys !"  an'  he  led  us  into  the  mess,  an'  cleaned 
out  four  of  'em  hisself  before  we  caught  up  with  'im." 

Jemmie  dropped  back  into  his  pillows  for  a 
moment's  rest.    Then  he  continued  his  story : 

"When  the  real  fightin'  started,"  he  said,  with  a 
sparkle  in  his  eyes,  "that  'ere  Du  Val  mixed  in  the 
thickest  of  it.  A  crowd  of  red-coats  in  a  clump  o'  pine 
woods  was  givin'  us  fits,  an'  we  couldn't  stop  'em. 
Then  Du  Val  he  goes  to  the  Colonel,  an'  very  respectful 
he  sez,  'Colonel,  give  me  ten  men  an'  I'll  drive  the 
enemy  to  the  devil.'  So  the  Colonel  sez  yes;  an' 
Du  Val,  a-sittin'  on  his  horse,  looks  around  a-smilin' 

409 


Wallannah 

an'  sez  in  his  easy-goin'  way,  'Who's  the  ten  that  wants 
to  go?'  An' fifty  of  us  sez 'We  are !'  Then  he  laughs 
an'  pulls  out  his  big  sword  an'  sez,  'Eat  'em  up,  boys !' 
An'  gosh!  we  did  eat  'em  up,  too.  Du  Val  he  went 
acrost  that  field  like  bullets  wasn't  made  that  could  hit 
him.  They  was  shootin'  at  us  simply  terrible,  an'  the 
Frenchman's  horse  went  down  first  pop.  He  landed 
on  his  feet,  an'  yells,  'Clean  'em  out,  boys!  clean  'em 
out !'    An'  we  kept  a-goin'. 

"I  swear  it  was  awful.  Bullets  was  hummin'  like 
yellow- jackets.  Du  Val's  hat  flew  off  his  head  with 
two  holes  shot  in  it  at  once,  an'  a  minute  afterwards 
he  wrapped  his  sword  hand  in  his  handkerchief  an' 
stood  laughin'  at  the  Britishers  in  the  woods.  Our 
boys  was  droppin'  fast.  We  closed  in  on  'em,  an'  little 
Rush  Gibson  from  Hillsboro'  runs  ahead  of  Du  Val 
wavin'  a  flag  an'  yellin',  'Charge !  charge !'  like  he  was 
a  general  of  a  brigade.  Du  Val  tries  to  hold  him  back, 
but  Gibson  goes  crazy  an'  runs  right  at  'em,  shoutin' 
an'  wavin'  his  flag.  Then  Du  Val  he  chases  Gibson 
an'  the  two  gets  to  the  woods  together,  with  us 
a-follerin'  fifty  yards  behind.  A  red-coat  officer  steps 
out  an'  shoots  a  pistol  squar'  in  Gibson's  face,  an'  the 
boy  drops  in  a  heap.  Quicker  than  lightnin'  we  seen 
Du  Val's  sword  shine,  an'  the  Britisher  goes  down  with 
his  head  split  down  to  his  grinnin'  mouth.  Then 
Du  Val,  his  head  bare  an'  his  black  hair  flyin'  in  the 
wind,  looks  back  an'  smilin'  soft  like  a  woman  sez, 
'Come  on  boys,  fer  Gibson's  sake!'  An'  did  we  come? 
Well,  I  reckon  so !  We  drove  'em  pilin'  into  the  creek 
an'  put  'em  out  o'  business  in  two  minutes.  Then 
Du  Val,  comin'  back,  picks  up  little  Gibson  an'  sez,  'Is 

410 


« 


To  My  Mother— God  Bless  Her !  '* 


the  boy's  mother  livin'?'  An'  I  sez  yes;  an'  he  sez, 
'Wrap  'im  in  his  flag  an'  bnry  him ;  an'  tell  his  mother 
that  her  boy  charged  the  hull  British  army  an*  died  a 
soldier's  death." 

"Then,"  said  Jemmie,  with  a  weary  sigh,  "they  shot 
me  in  the  back  as  we  was  gettin'  round  to  the  lines,  an' 
I  had  to  drop  out.  But  Du  Val's  a-fightin'  yet.  I  never 
seen  such  a  man.  When  he  laughs  an'  throws  back  his 
head  an'  sez,  'Come  on,  boys !'  there  ain't  a  man  in  the 
hull  army  that  wouldn't  foller  him  straight  to  hell 
if  he  started  that  way.     I  only  wish  I  was  with  'im 


now." 


And  so  did  the  news  of  Motier  Du  Val  come  to  the 
little  town  of  New  Bern.  And  the  people  wondered 
how  it  would  all  end. 

Months  passed,  and  as  the  war  waxed  fiercer 
Du  Val's  name  became  more  frequently  heard,  until 
every  fireside  in  the  Carolinas  echoed  the  praise  of  his 
daring. 

Then  one  noon,  when  the  devout  townspeople  were 
closing  a  service  of  prayer  for  the  Continental  arms, 
some  one  whispered  at  the  church  door  that  Caswell, 
with  a  dozen  men,  was  coming  down  the  road.  The 
benediction  was  pronounced,  and  the  congregation  filed 
into  the  street,  where  had  gathered  already  a  throng 
numbering  many  hundreds.  Up  the  road,  in  a  cloud  of 
dust,  was  a  party  of  horsemen.  Nearer  they  came, 
until  Colonel  Caswell's  martial  figure  brought  a  cheer 
from  the  throats  of  the  people.  At  the  sound  of 
applause  one  horse  bolted,  and  a  broad-shouldered 
young  fellow,  in  uniform  of  blue  and  buff,  and  mounted 
on  a  plunging  grey  charger,  dashed  down  the  street. 

411 


Wallannah 

As  he  passed  before  the  church  the  horseman  halted 
and  looked  up.    A  voice  in  the  crowd  yelled,  "Du  Val !" 

Motier  gave  a  swift  glance  over  the  multitude  of 
faces  before  him.  Within  the  church's  portal  he  saw 
Lord  Durham  and  his  wife.  He  raised  his  hat  and 
smiled ;  and  at  the  salutation  a  great  yell  went  up  from 
the  crowd. 

"Du  \"al !   Du  Val !" 

Reining  in  his  horse  with  an  iron  hand,  he  bowed 
again  and  again  at  the  crowd  that  thronged  about  him. 

Then  some  one  cried,  "Remember  Gibson !" 

That  had  been  Motier's  battle-cry ;  and  a  hundred 
voices  picked  it  up.  Arms  were  waved  with  wild 
enthusiasm,  hats  were  tossed  in  the  air^  and 
handkerchiefs  fluttered  in  the  breeze.  Again  the  shout 
was  raised,  and  the  crowd  carried  it  on  and  on,  until 
New  Bern  rang  from  the  river  to  the  forest  with  the 
soldier's  cry :  "Remember  Gibson !" 

Then  followed  the  hoarse  yell,  "Du  Val !  Du  Val !" 
And  while  the  air  quivered  with  the  mighty  shout, 
Motier  rode  down  between  the  -lines  of  cheering 
villagers,  and  with  his  head  held  high  and  with  a  touch 
of  pride  about  his  firmly-set  lips,  delivered  himself  into 
the  hands  of  Justice,  to  stand  trial  for  the  murder  of 
Robert  McFaddin. 

The  news  of  Du  Val's  voluntary  return  swept 
through  the  town  like  wildfire.  Some  who  knew  him 
had  thought  that  he  might  some  time  come  back  for 
trial;  but  the  greater  number,  believing  him  guilty, 
scouted  the  idea.  Yet,  he  was  there ;  and  few  believed 
that  he  could  escape  the  penalty  of  the  crime  which 
was  laid  at  his  door. 

412 


Hk  raised  his  hat  and  smiled. 


"To  My  Mother — God  Bless  Her!" 

On  the  day  of  the  trial  the  courthouse  was  filled 
to  the  uttermost.  Throughout  the  long  ordeal  the 
prisoner  faced  the  throng  with  a  coldness  that  bordered 
on  indilTerence.  Witness  after  witness  told  of  the 
circumstances  immediately  following  the  murder ;  and 
when  Cantwell,  the  last  witness  for  the  prosecution, 
took  the  stand,  few  within  those  walls  doubted  that 
Du  Val  would  hang  within  the  month. 

But  Lawyer  Writman  did  wondrous  things  in  the 
cross-examination  of  the  'Squire.  When  the  attorney 
had  concluded  his  work  in  that  line,  the  court-room  was 
in  an  uproar;  for  the  reputation  of  Cantwell  —  the 
good  'Squire  Cantwell  —  had  been  torn  to  shreds. 
When  the  defense  opened,  Writman  continued  his  fight 
against  the  'Squire ;  and  that  gentleman,  his  face  pallid 
and  his  hands  shaking  as  in  an  ague,  began  edging  his 
way  toward  the  door.  Motier's  attorney  proved,  among 
other  things,  that  Cantwell  had  hired  the  Indian  girl, 
Sequa,  to  steal  Mary  Ross's  child;  that  he  had  told 
Peggy  McF'addin  the  baby  was  in  his  way ;  that  he  had 
made  an  attempt,  during  the  infancy  of  the  prisoner,  to 
compass  his  death  by  poisoning;  that  in  April  of  1771 
he  had  conspired  with  his  own  son  to  shoot  Du  Val 
from  an  ambush ;  that  three  months  afterward  he  had 
sent  this  same  son  to  the  mountains  to  engage  Du  Val 
in  a  duel,  with  a  view  to  his  death ;  and  that  by  every 
means  within  his  power  he  had  sought  to  persecute  the 
man  who  was  now  the  prisoner  at  the  bar.  And  why  ? 
Because  he  knew  Du  Val  to  be  his  son  by  Ivlary  Ross, 
and  feared  that  discovering  this  fact  the  young  man 
might  seek  to  adjust  his  mother's  wrongs  and  thus 
disclose  the  fact  that  the  virtuous  Cantwell  had  two 
living  wives.  41^ 


Wallannah 

Then  by  Sequa  (who  had  risen  to  the  dignity  of  a 
"Christian  Indian")  Writman  showed  that  Cantwell 
had  killed  AIcFaddin  and  had  thrown  his  dagger  among 
the  bushes,  where  Sequa  had  found  it  the  moment  it 
fell.  He  reinforced  this  testimony  by  that  of  Doctors 
Boggs  and  Gaston,  and  by  Simon  Fawn. 

The  physicians  swore  that,  on  exhuming  the  body 
of  the  sailor,  they  had  found  in  the  front  surface  of  a 
vertebral  bone  a  pointed  piece  of  steel  a  quarter  of  an 
inch  in  length.  The  poniard  which  had  been  taken 
from  Motier  on  the  right  of  the  murder  was  unbroken ; 
but  the  one  which  Sequa  had  picked  from  the  ground 
where  Cantwell  had  thrown  it  was  without  its  point. 
And  the  bit  of  steel  in  the  vertebra  fitted  the  broken 
blade  of  Cantwell's  dagger.  Furthermore,  it  w^as 
proved  by  measurement  that  the  dagger  blades  were 
not  originally  of  the  same  length,  and  that  the  one 
found  upon  Motier  was  too  short  to  have  pierced  from 
the  chest  to  the  backbone  of  any  man. 

Then  the  evidence  turned  to  the  Bank  of  England 
note  which  Cantwell  had  sworn  that  he  paid  McFaddin 
half  an  hour  before  his  death,  and  which  was  not  found 
upon  the  body.  Simon  Fawn  testified  that  Cantwell 
had  come  to  him  on  the  afternoon  before  the  murder, 
saying  that  he  wanted  for  immediate  use  a  bank  note 
of  one  hundred  pounds.  Fawn  lent  him  the  money, 
which  he  promised  to  refund  the  next  day.  The 
following  morning  Cantwell  returned  the  note,  which 
Fawn  identified  by  its  number.  Upon  this  bill  was  a 
bloodstain,  marked  over  and  half  concealed  by  several 
ink  lines.  The  note  had  been  fresh  and  clean  when 
Fawn  had  lent  it  to  the  'Squire.    Then  came  the  mute 

414 


"To  My  Mother— God  Bless  Her!'' 

evidence  of  the  rough  paper  wallet  which  was  found  in 
the  dead  man's  pocket,  and  which  was  soaked  through 
and  through  with  a  bloodstain  of  the  very  size  and 
shape  of  the  one  upon  the  banknote. 

Thus  came  testimony  upon  testimony,  until  the 
evidence  was  closed;  and  the  judge,  without  charge, 
gave  the  case  to  the  jury ;  and  the  jury,  without  leaving 
the  court-room,  returned  a  verdict  of  "not  guilty," 
Then,  despite  the  thunderings  of  the  judicial  gavel,  and 
the  efforts  of  the  sheriff  and  his  deputies,  the  crowd 
surged  to  the  front,  and  lifting  Du  Val  into  midair, 
carried  him  from  the  court-room  amid  such  shouts  and 
cheers  as  had  never  before  sounded  within  the  confines 
of  New  Bern,  except  on  that  morning  when  the  people 
had  cried,  "Remember  Gibson !"' 

"When  the  sheriff,  with  a  bench-warrant,  sought  for 
Cant  well,  the  good  man  was  gone.  And  within  the 
hour  the  'Squire,  in  the  stable  behind  his  house,  sought 
the  death  that  Judas  sought  upon  the  Field  of  Blood; 
for  he  went  out  and  hanged  himself.  His  funeral 
cortege  was  a  smaller  one  than  McFaddin's,  five  years 
before. 

Breaking  from  the  crowd,  Motier  sought  refuge  in 
the  inn.  There  he  made  the  landlord  take  Ocebee's 
brother's  pipe  from  the  wall  where  his  wife  had  hung 
it  with  a  red  ribbon  four  years  ago,  and  with  a  bagful 
of  tobacco  he  went  to  his  old  room  to  think  over  some 
things  and  to  plan  about  some  others. 

His  theory  of  his  relationship  to  Cantwell  and  Mary 
Ross  had  been  borne  out  by  the  little  that  M.  Du  Val 
(whom  Motier,  after  his  escape,  rejoined  in  France) 
knew  about  the  case.    But  such  a  father  Motier  would 

415 


Wallannah 

never  seek.  So  he  straightway  and  unnecessarily 
excluded  the  'Squire  from  his  calculations.  The  'Squire 
was  doing,  at  that  very  moment,  his  own  excluding. 

Then,  taking  up  the  question  of  Mary  Ross,  Motier 
determined  to  see  her  at  once,  and  to  place  her  beyond 
all  care  and  want.  He  would  build  a  mansion  near 
Beechwood  and  would  persuade  Mrs.  De  Vere  —  or 
Lady  Durham,  as  she  now  was  — to  relinquish  her  hold 
upon  Alice.  Thus  could  all  three,  mother  and  son  and 
daughter,  live  together  in  peace  and  happiness  beneath 
one  roof. 

Then  came  a  thought  that  struck  Motier  like  a 
knife-thrust.  By  what  name  would  he  call  himself? 
and  by  what  name  would  he  call  his  mother  and  his 
sister  ?  Cantwell  ?  Heavens,  no !  Not  while  a  shred 
of  honor  lived  in  him  would  he  ever  take  that  name. 

Motier  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  floor. 
Suddenly,  without  a  warning  knock,  the  door  burst 
open  and  Captain  Maynard  rushed  into  the  room. 

"Motier,"  he  said,  excitedly,  ''for  heaven's  sake 
come  to  my  house !"  He  dragged  Du  Val  toward  the 
door. 

"Hold  on !  Hold  on !  Let  me  get  my  hat  and  — 
Look  out !  you'll  break  my  pipe !  What's  the  matter  at 
the  house?" 

Maynard  pulled  impatiently  at  Du  Val's  arm. 
"Something's  in  the  wind,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "Never 
mind  locking  your  door.  Come  ahead.  Your  father's 
just  come  here  from  the  South;  and,  hearing  of  your 
acquittal,  came  to  my  house.  IMargaret  recognized  him 
as  her  brother  — " 

Motier  stopped  short.    "As  what?" 

416 


I 


"To  My  Mother — God  Bless  Her!" 

"As  her  brother,  Richard  Dudley.  Come  ahead  1  I 
knew  it  all  the  time,  but  never  spoke  of  it.  He  assumed 
the  name  for  some  political  reason.  Then  Margaret 
asked  him  how  you  came  to  be  his  son  — " 

"Well,  did  he  tell  you?"  Motier's  question  broke 
off  in  a  laugh.  They  were  now  in  the  street,  and  were 
walking  rapidly  toward  Maynard's  house. 

"Yes,"  answered  Maynard,  "he  says  you're 
Cantwell's  son ;   but  —  "     He  stopped. 

Motier  pulled  him  around  with  a  jerk.  "But  what?" 
he  roared,  glaring  into  Maynard's  face. 

"But  I  know  better.  Come  on!  Everything's  in 
a  mess.  Your  fa  —  Dudley,  I  mean,  says  that  the  will 
giving  his  estate  to  Cantwell  instead  of  Margaret  must 
have  been  forged  by  the  'Squire  during  his  clerkship 
in  a  lawyer's  office  in  Salisbury;  and  he  has  a  letter 
bearing  my  forged  signature,  which  explains  the 
trouble  between  Richard  and  myself;  then  he  says  that 
en  Margaret's  account  he  bought  the  land  that 
Cantwell,  by  the  forged  will,  got  when  he  thought 
Richard  dead ;  and  that  he  had  it  re-recorded  in  her 
name.    Tonta  says  — " 

"Hold  on !  You'll  smash  me  into  this  tree.  What's 
your  everlasting  hurry,  anyway?" 

"Don't  be  a  mule :  come  on  faster !" 

Motier  quickened  his  pace.  "You  were  telHng  what 
Tonta  said,"  he  suggested. 

"Tonta  says  that  the  baby  you  thought  grew  into 
yourself  died  in  the  woods." 

"Died  in  the  woods!  Then  who  in  thunder 
am  I  ?" 

"That's  what  I'm  hurrying  to  find  out." 

417 


Wallannah 

"Hurry  up,  then !  For  heaven's  sake !  look  out  for 
that  fence!" 

"It's  my  own  fence.  Don't  bother  with  the  gate; 
jump  over." 

The  two  men  rushed  across  the  lawn  and  went 
through  the  doorway.  The  gardener  at  work  in  a 
lily-bed,  looked  up  with  a  grin.  "Squealin' 
Mud-turtles !"  he  muttered.  "They've  turned  the 
Frencher  loose.  But  he  ain't  no  spider-legged  flooer 
dc  lee !  Ef  he  ain't  Car'lina  from  his  skelo  to  his  heels, 
Tm  a  bloody,  bat-eyed  lunytic." 

]\Iaynard  pulled  Motier  into  the  parlor.  Wallannah 
stood  with  Doctor  Boggs  near  the  centre  of  the  floor. 
At  one  side  of  the  room  were  Lord  Durham  and  Lady 
Durham  and  M.  Du  Val  —  or  Richard  Dudley,  as  it 
now  appeared. 

Boggs  began  the  conversation.  "Mrs.  Maynard," 
he  said,  gently,  watching  her  face  with  eyes  that 
gleamed  piercingly  under  their  shaggy  brows,  "look 
carefully  into  this  young  man's  eyes  ;  then  raise  his  left 
coat-sleeve  and  look  at  his  arm." 

The  room  was  breathlessly  silent.  Mrs.  ^Maynard 
stepped  forward  and  looked  at  Motier  as  she  had  that 
afternoon  at  Yaunocca.  Then  dropping  her  eyes  she 
took  his  hand  and  lifted  the  sleeve.  The  light  fell  upon 
the  triple  mark  of  the  clustered  red  cherries. 

"Arthur !  My  son !"  she  cried,  as  sobbing  she  threw 
her  arms  about  his  neck. 

Boggs  held  back  Maynard  with  a  grip  of  iron. 
Lord  and  Lady  Durham  and  Mr.  Dudley  started  to 
their  feet,  but  were  warned  back  by  the  look  of  the 
doctor's  eyes. 

418 


"To  My  Mother — God  Bless  Her?" 

Motier  stood  like  a  carven  statue,  with  one  arm 
about  Mrs.  Maynard.  His  handsome  face,  with  a  sad 
smile  on  its  Hps  and  a  look  of  pity  in  its  eyes,  was  bent 
over  Wallannah's  head.  She  was  sobbing  brokenly  as 
Motier  with  his  one  free  hand  softly  smoothed  her 
hair. 

Then  she  raised  her  head,  and  again  looked  into 
his  face.  "Arthur,"  she  said,  with  a  low  laugh,  ''I 
knew  it  all  the  time,  for  the  spirits  told  me." 

Boggs  and  Maynard  exchanged  quick  glances  as 
they  heard  Wallannah's  laugh;  for  they  feared  the 
shock  had  thrown  her  back  into  the  cloud  of  her  former 
days. 

Motier,  sorely  puzzled,  knew  not  what  to  answer. 
"What  did  the  spirits  tell  you  ?"  he  asked,  tenderly. 

"They  told  me  that  day  on  the  mountain  that 
Ocebee's  prisoner  was  my  son  —  the  boy  whom  we  all 
thought  dead." 

Her  voice  was  grov/mg  stronger,  and  the  light  in 
her  eyes  was  calm  again.  Boggs  and  Maynard  each 
drew  a  long  breath;  for  they  knew  that  the  danger 
had  passed. 

"I  could  not  see  you  then  as  I  do  now,"  she  went 
on,  "for  I  lived  in  a  dream  for  many,  many  years ;  but 
now  I  know  that  you  are  my  own  dear  boy !" 

Motier  gave  a  helpless  look  at  Boggs.  The  doctor 
answered  with  a  smile.  Maynard  whispered  a  few 
words  into  his  wife's  ear.  She  smiled,  and  kissed 
Motier  twice  upon  the  cheek.  Then  Boggs  led  her 
from  the  room. 

When  the  doctor  returned  he  had  a  bundle  oi  papers 
in  his  hand.    Motier  and  Maynard  were  standing  in 

419 


Wallannah 

the  middle  of  the  room,  each  looking  into  the  other's 
eyes,  and  each  about  to  speak. 

Motier  had  the  first  word.  "I  deeply  regret, 
Captain,  to  have  been  the  cause  of  any  return  of  Mrs. 
Maynard's  troi!ble  — " 

"Tut!  tut!  boy!"  broke  in  Boggs,  in  thunderous 
tones.    "Are  you  blind  ?" 

Motier  turned  toward  him.  "Not  blind,"  he 
answered,  "but  I'm  verv  badly  muddled,  to  say  the 
least." 

"Well,  I'll  unmuddle  you."  The  doctor  slammed 
a  paper  onto  the  table.  "There's  one  affidavit ;  there's 
another;  there's  another;  and  there  are  six  more." 
He  glared  defiantly  at  Motier. 

The  young  man  laughed.  "Well,  what  about 
them?" 

"They  prove  that  you  are  Arthur  Maynard.  That's 
what  about  them !" 

"But  Sequa  stole  me  from  Mary  Ross,"  protested 
Motier,  looking  from  Boggs  to  Maynard  and  back 
again 

"Sequa  stole  Mary  Ross's  baby ;  and  it  died  in  her 
arms  before  she  got  to  New  Bern.  She  came  by 
Captain  Maynard's  house  when  it  first  caught  afire. 
She  knew  where  the  child's  room  was,  and  ran  up 
there  to  see  if  it  was  safe.  She  had  Mary's  dead  baby 
in  her  arms  and  found  Mrs.  Maynard's  live  one  on  the 
bed.  So  she  changed  the  one  for  the  other;  and  this 
bunch  of  affidavits  proves  that  you're  the  live  one  and 
not  the  dead  one.  That's  a  twisted  sentence,  but  I 
guess  you  know  what  it  means." 

Motier,  with  a  half-chokcl  laugh,  turned  t©  grasp 
his  father's  hand.  420 


"To  My  Mother — God  Bless  Her!" 

The  sudden  report  of  a  musket  made  them  start. 

A  drawling  voice  drifted  in  at  the  window. 
"Croakin'  Snails!  Blowed  his  head  clean  ofif  his  neck. 
That  'ere  kingfisher's  been  a-squawkin'  long  'nough ; 
an'  durned  if  I  didn't  stop  his  suflf'rin's  this  time." 

An  hour  later  Motier  stood  at  the  head  of  the  table 
in  his  father's  dining-room.  At  his  right  hand  stood 
Captain  Alaynard,  tall  and  broad-shouldered  like  his 
son.  Beyond  him  was  Lady  Durham,  handsome  and 
stately ;  and  at  her  side  stood  Lord  Durham,  his  noble 
height  and  classic  features  marking  him  for  a  man 
among  men.  At  Motier's  left  was  Richard  Dudley, 
graceful  and  patrician  in  every  line;  and  Mary  Ross, 
with  the  light  of  goodness  in  her  comely  face;  and 
Ignatius  Boggs,  M.D.,  shaggy-browed  but  kindly-eyed, 
smiling  quietly  as  one  who  has  attained  his  dearest 
desires. 

Motier  raised  his  glass  of  Catawba,  and  looked  over 
the  glowing  candles  at  the  queenly,  dark-robed  figure 
at  the  table's  foot.  His  throat  tightened  a  little  at  the 
gladness  of  it  all ;  then  with  a  smile,  and  in  a  voice 
that  thrilled  to  the  hearts  of  all  within  the  room,  he 
called : 

"To  my  mother  —  God  bless  her  !" 

And  she  smiled  back  at  him  with  tears  of  joy  in 
her  eyes. 


421 


Wallannah 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
In  Which  the  Expected  Happens 


FTER  supper  Motier,  leaving  the  guests  in 
the  parlor,  stole  through  the  back  door  and 
;v2nt  down  the  lane  toward  the  stable.  The 
moon  was  still  below  the  forests,  but  its 
light  was  in  the  sky;  and  Motier,  pausing  for  a 
moment  on  his  way,  could  see  in  clear-cut  silhouette 
the  familiar  shapes  of  the  mansions  round  about  the 
town.  There  were  the  great  trees  that  guarded  the 
governor's  palace  —  the  princely  house  whose  halls 
now  rang  with  the  steps  of  strangers,  but  whose  every 
niche  and  alcove  teemed  with  the  whitening  bones  of 
its  dead  memories.  And  there,  so  far  away  that  his 
eyes  could  scarcely  pierce  the  gloom,  were  the  elms 
that  lined  the  graveled  walkways  of  Beechwood, 
Under  the  elms  had  been  the  roses  —  roses  white  as  her 
own  pure  brow  —  but  all  of  that  had  been  years  and 
years  before.  The  roses,  perhaps,  were  dead ;  and 
she  —  he  knew  not  where  she  was. 

With  a  quick  compression  of  the  lips  he  turned  and 
walked  down  the  path. 

A  lantern's  feeble  light  glimmered  in  the  open 
stable  door.  Motier,  with  quick  change  of  mood, 
laughed  softly  to  himself. 

"Tonta!"  he  called,  "Tonta,  you  copper-colored 
rascal !  Come  here,  or  I'll  thrash  your  hide  to  ribbons !" 

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In  Which  the  Expected  Happens 

The  lantern  dropped  to  the  floor  and  went  out. 
From  the  gloom  came  a  wild  cry. 

"Caiheek  come  back !" 

A  lithe  figure  cleared  at  a  single  bound  a  rod  of 
flower-bed  and  a  waist-high  hedge. 

"Tonta  told  Cap'n  Caiheek  come  back.  Cap'n  say 
no.  Tonta  tell  Great  Spirit  if  Caiheek  no  come  Tonta 
make  church  burn.  Great  Spirit  know  Tonta  no 
'fraid  —  Caiheek  come  back." 

Motier  laughed.  "Same  crazy  Indian,"  he  said, 
grasping  Tonta's  arm  with  a  grip  that  made  the  boy 
wince.     "Come;   we'll  go  to  the  stable." 

Amid  a  babble  of  Indian  extravagance,  plentifully 
embellished  with  clumsy  oaths  in  French  and  English 
and  Cherokee,  Tonta  led  the  way.  Together  they 
entered  the  stable,  and  Tonta  relighted  the  lantern. 

"Where  is  he  ?"  asked  Motier,  sharply. 

Divining  his  master's  meaning,  Tonta  guided  him 
to  a  stall  where  a  great  black  horse  pawed  the  floor 
with  restless  hoofs.  "Fleetfoot !"  The  horse  whinnied 
and  turned  his  head  toward  the  light. 

Motier  stepped  into  the  stall. 

"No  go  there,"  cried  Tonta,  in  terror.  "Horse  kick 
'em  Caiheek." 

"Kick  your  grandmother,"  growled  Motier.  "Don't 
I  know  him  ?"  And  running  his  hand  over  the  glossy 
back,  he  stepped  in  beside  the  horse. 

Tonta  relapsed  into  an  awe-stricken  silence. 

"Fleetfoot,"  said  Motier  again. 

The  animal  dropped  his  head  into  Motier's  hand, 
and  looked  with  almost  human  understanding  into  his 
master's   face.     Then  with   a  low  sound,   something 

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Wallannah 

between  a  whinny  and  a  growl,  he  rubbed  his  nose 
against  Motier's  shoulder. 

"I'd  like  to  saddle  you  and  tear  some  of  these  roads 
into  powder,  old  fellow,"  said  Motier,  "but  I've  got  a 
new  father  and  a  new  mother  and  a  crowd  of  friends  at 
the  house,  and  I  can't  go."  Then,  with  a  farewell  pat 
on  the  velvety  nose,  Motier  turned  and  left  the  stable. 

Tonta  was  still  silent. 

"Thought  he'd  kick,  did  you,  Cherokee?"  laughed 
Motier. 

"Horse  no  like  Tonta,"  responded  the  Indian. 
"Tonta  say  'good  horse,'  and  horse  feet  go  'bang!' 
Dam !    Tonta  keep  'way." 

Half  way  up  the  path  Motier  stopped.  "Ho,  boy !" 
he  called.  From  the  darkness  came  back  a  neigh,  loud 
and  clear  and  long.  Motier  chuckled  softly.  "He 
knows  me  now,  doesn't  he  ?"  he  asked  of  his  companion. 

"Horse  no  like  Tonta,"  was  all  the  answer  the  boy 
could  give. 

Du  Val,  entering  the  house,  ascended  to  his  room 
and  made  his  evening  toilet.  This  completed,  he 
started  down  the  hall.  Near  the  head  of  the  stairway 
he  met  Richard  Dudley. 

"Motier,"  said  the  elder  man,  in  an  unsteady  voice, 
"you've  been  so  much  to  me  as  my  son  through  all  the 
past  years  that  I've  persuaded  your  father  and  mother 
to  keep  your  old  Uncle  Richard  in  the  room  next  to 
yours,  until  such  a  time  as  you  want  to  ship  me  back  to 
France.  You've  been  all  the  world  to  me,  and  —  Bless 
you,  boy !  you're  all  the  world  yet !" 

Motier  took  Dudley's  hand  and  pressed  it  tightly. 
"You  found  mother  and  father  easy  to  persuade,  I 

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In  Which  the  Expected  Happens 

guess;  for  I  arranged  the  matter  an  hour  ago.  Did 
you  think  for  one  moment  that  my  foster-father,  the 
man  who  has  cared  for  me  from  the  cradle,  would  have 
to  go  back  to  that  grimy  old  castle  in  Auxerre?  No, 
sir !  You'll  never  get  out  of  my  clutches.  Now  come 
down  — " 

They  heard  a  step  behind  them ;  and  turned  to  greet 
Captain  Maynard. 

"Cap  —  father,  I  mean  —  confound  it!  I  can't 
realize  this  blessed  thing  yet  —  come  down  with  Uncle 
Dick  (Great  Caesar !  Uncle  Dick !) —  come  down  with 
us,  and  see  the  good  people.  I've  sent  Tonta  to  the 
inn  after  Ocebee's  brother's  pipe;  and  I've  got  my 
freedom,  and  my  father  and  my  mother,  and  my  uncle, 
and  old  Fleetfoot,  and  everything  and  everybody, 
except  —  Well,  come  down,  father  mine,  and  uncle 
mine,  and  see  what  makes  the  laughter  in  the 
parlor." 

And  the  three  men  went  arm  in  arm  down  the  broad 
stairway,  the  two  great  brawny  fellows  on  either  side, 
with  the  slight  white-haired  man  between  them. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  they  met  Mrs.  Maynard, 
her  handsome  face  wreathed  in  smiles.  She  drew  her 
son  to  one  side  and  whispered  something  in  his  ear. 
Then  he  kissed  her. 

"As  you  say,  mother  dear,"  he  laughed.  "But 
where  is  his  Lordship  ?" 

"In  the  back-parlor,  Motier.  Don't  keep  him 
waiting."  And  she  went  with  her  husband  and  her 
brother  into  the  parlor. 

Motier's  face  wore  a  little  frown  as  he  went  down 
the  hall  toward  the  back-parlor  door.    He  had  always 

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Wallannah 

been  irresistibly  drawn  toward  Lord  Durham ;  but  he 
still  remembered  him  as  the  one  who  had  wooed  Alice, 
only  to  set  her  aside  and  marry  her  mother.  And  Alice 
had  been  much  in  his  mind  to-night ;  for,  since  she  was 
not  his  sister  —  But  nonsense !  That  was  five  years 
ago. 

He  opened  the  door.  Lord  Durham  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room;  and  by  his  side  was  a  slight, 
fair-haired  girl,  dressed  in  black. 

"Motier,"  said  the  nobleman,  "permit  me  to  present 
my  daughter,  Alice  Noel!" 

There  was  a  glad  cry  and  a  quick  rush  of  silken 
skirts. 

"Motier!" 

"Alice!" 

And  thus  they  met. 

After  Durham  had  stolen  from  the  room,  and  when 
the  two  pairs  of  lips  had  parted,  they  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes,  and  Alice  buried  her  face  against  Motier's 
shoulder. 

"Those  were  long,  long  years;  weren't  they, 
Motier?"  she  said,  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"Yes,  dearest ;  so  long  that  they  seemed  to  have  no 
end." 

"And  you  did  not  understand  about — about  father  ? 
and  you  even  thought  me  your  sister?  and  still  you 
loved  me  ?" 

He  held  her  closer  to  him.  "Yes,  sweetheart.  I 
have  loved  you  since  the  day  that  you  pinned  the  first 
white  rose  on  my  coat ;  and  I'll  cease  to  love  you  when 
roses  cease  to  grow." 

She  looked  up  wath  love's  bright  light  in  her  eyes. 

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In  Which  the  Expected  Happens 

"You  have  made  me  so  happy,"  she  said,  "for  I 
iCared  you  had  forgotten." 

"Forgotten?"  he  repeated,  with  gentle  reproach. 
"Did  I  not  tell  you,  back  there  in  the  distant  ages,  that 
a  man  never  forgets,  even  when  he  tries?" 

"Then  you  have  tried  to  forget?" 

"Am  I  not  here  now?"  he  asked,  evading  her 
question. 

"Yes."    Her  voice  sank  into  a  whisper. 

"And  you  love  me?" 

Her  lips  quivered.  "Now  and  forever,"  she  said, 
very  softly, 

"Then  let  the  past  be  as  it  may.  Look  again  into 
my  eyes,  sweetheart,  and  tell  me  —  " 

"Yes,  my  knight  —  I  love  you." 

He  took  her  face  between  his  hands,  as  he  had 
that  morning  years  before,  in  the  rose-garden  at 
Beechwood. 

They  walked  across  to  the  open  window  and  looked 
over  toward  the  river.  The  moon  was  climbing  up 
from  the  level  of  the  tree  tops,  and  a  broad  beam  of 
shimmering  silver  spread  across  the  Neuse. 

"More  than  once  did  I  fear  never  to  see  our  river 
again,"  said  Motier.  "And  the  thought  was  not  a 
pleasant  one;  for  I  have  seen  life  at  its  best  beside  that 
stream  —  and  with  you." 

"Were  the  days  by  the  river  happier  than  the  two 
white  rose  days  ?"  she  asked,  returning  the  pressure  of 
his  hand. 

"Nay,  lady  mine;  there  were  no  days  like  those 
two." 

"Yea,  verily  —  for  me  as  well  as  for  you.    But  wny 

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Wallannah 

did  you  think  the  river  would  be  yours  no  more  ?  Was 
there  much  danger  through  those  last  long  years?" 

"A  little;  by  land  and  by  sea.  And  some  of 
bitterness,  also." 

"Did  she  come  much  into  your  life?" 

"Lucille?  Yes;  but  not  as  before.  She  and  her 
father  sailed  with  me  to  Liverpool.  There  I  left 
them." 

"Have  you  never  seen  her  since  ?" 

"Not  as  Lucille.  Once  I  saw  her,  but  she  bore 
another  name."- 

"Has  she  married  ?" 

"No;  save  in  the  spirit.  I  saw  her  in  the  chapel 
of  the  con\'«nt  of  Saint  Sylvestro,  when  the  cardinal 
gave  his  benediction  and  the  black-robed  sisterhood 
chanted  her  welcome.  Now  she  is  Sister  Berenice; 
and  she  wears  the  coarse  garb  of  a  Franciscan  and 
looks  at  the  world  through  a  grated  window." 

Alice  shuddered.  "It  seems  so  terrible,  doesn't  it? 
for  she  was  so  beautiful  and  so  queenly." 

"Yes." 

"And  do  you  think  that  before  she  took  the  veil 
she  —  she  was  better  ?" 

"That  lies  between  herself  and  her  God,  dear  one. 
I  do  not  know." 

They  were  silent  a  long  time.  A  dark  ship  with 
sails  outspread  crept  up  the  river  and  dropped  anchor 
in  the  middle  of  the  silver  path  of  the  moonlight.  From 
a  tree  by  the  window  a  whippoorAvill  gave  its  mournful 
call;  and  its  mate  in  the  cypress  groves  by  the 
river-shore  echoed  a  soft  response. 

From  the  parlor  came  the  subdued  music  of  the 

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In  Which  the  Expected  Happens 

harpsichord,  with  an  under-melody  of  laughter  and 
conversation. 

While  they  stood  there,  with  the  moonlight 
streaming  in  upon  them,  Alice's  eyes  sought  her  lover's 
face.  "You  are  happy  to  be  again  with  me  ?"  she  asked, 
with  a  soft,  wistful  ring  in  her  voice. 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her.  "Happy?  Aye., 
happier  than  it  is  right  that  man  should  be.  The  dark 
days  have  gone  by.  Even  their  memory  is  lost  in  my 
love  for  you." 

"In  your  love  only?  Then  does  mine  count  for 
naught  ?" 

"It  counts  for  so  much  that  we  shall  call  it  the  love 
that  spanned  the  gulf  of  sorrowful  years.  From  the 
first  white  rose  day  to  this  night  within  my  father's 
house,  all  is  forgotten,  sweetheart,  save  only  your  love 
and  mine." 

His  hand  and  hers,  his  heart  and  hers,  were  joined 
forever !  Looking  to  the  years  yet  to  come,  they  knew 
that  love  had  wrought  its  crown  of  gold  —  of  gold 
without  dross  —  from  the  midst  of  a  fiery  furnace. 
And  before  their  eyes  and  upon  their  hearts  was  the 
sign  of  the  pure  white  rose. 

Through  paths  that  were  dark  and  winding,  through 
days  and  nights  that  seemed  as  years  upon  years,  and 
tlirough  years  that  seemed  to  have  no  end,  Love,  though 
blind,  had  found  its  way.  The  stony  highways  had 
been  cleared  and  smoothed  and  straightened  by  the 
touch  of  the  Hand  of  hands. 


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